


We Built it Slowly, Stone by Accidental Stone

by Durincorporated



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (except no one dies), Arya realizes that being a lady can mean whatever she wants it to, Bottom Jaime Lannister, Bran has emotions, Crying During Sex, Everyone gets their heads outta their asses, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Arya Stark, POV Jaime Lannister, POV Sansa Stark, POV Tyrion Lannister, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Episode: s08e03 The Long Night, Rickon is alive cause I said so, Safe for Dany fans!, Sansa and Dany work out their shit, Sansa makes Robb proud, Top Brienne, Tormund is House Stark’s hype man, Weddings, courting gifts, dadvos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-02-28 21:42:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 37,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18764809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Durincorporated/pseuds/Durincorporated
Summary: In the wake of the Battle for Winterfell, the survivors begin to plan the future that had seemed so unlikely when the dead were marching south. A new King in the North is named, a wedding is had, marriage proposals are made, and the Dragon Queen names another Hand.





	1. Aftermath

**Sansa**

 

Sansa took three deep breaths and tried to calm herself in an attempt to maintain her strong image for her people. Moments ago she was fighting for said people’s safety. Moments ago she wielded a weapon for the first time, killed with her own hands for the first time, and was wounded in battle for the first time. She wanted to vomit.

 

_It’s over,_ she thought on the fourth breath. _Someone killed the Night King._

 

She quickly turned to the people behind her and barked out orders. “Missandei, Varys, make sure everyone’s accounted for and don’t drop your guard – the battle may not be over for true. Gather at the foot of the stairs and wait for the signal before you begin to evacuate to the courtyard.” Sansa watched as Varys and Missandei herded the women, children, and elders, only turning back once they had disappeared.

 

“And what–” Tyrion’s voice croaked on his words. “What shall you have me do, Lady Stark?”

 

“You stay with me, we need to count the dead so we can report to Jon.” _If he’s still alive,_ she didn’t say. She clutched her middle at the twinge of pain.

 

“Are they broken?” Tyrion asked, genuinely concerned. She gave him a sad smile.

 

“Nothing I haven’t endured before,” she said. “Are you-?” Sansa’s heart stopped beating and a sickly, horrible ice flooded her veins as her gaze fell upon a fallen wight. _Oh… oh, no._

 

“Sansa?” Tyrion asked, his concern overshadowing formalities.

 

But Sansa’s words were blocked by a growing lump in her throat, and all she could do was stare at the wight’s bony corpse that had once belonged to her father. The dragonglass dagger sang as it hit the stone floor and its echo filled her ears, blocking out all other sounds as she rushed passed Mother and Robb’s tombs to where Father lay. Her knees hit the floor hard enough to bruise. To any other the wight was unrecognizable, but she knew it was him in her heart.

 

There was no skull to imagine Father’s face, no Ice to clutch, no skin to feel, but it was him. She wrapped his large winter cloak around his ribs and laid her cheek where his heart would lie, closing her eyes as tears rushed down her face.

 

“Leave me,” Sansa said, not wanting anyone to see her like this.

 

“Sansa, I’m not going to tell anyone that I saw you cry in grief,” said Tyrion. “And I’m not going to think you weak for a few simple tears – there’s not a person in Winterfell who would.”

 

She tried to force herself not to cry but a single sob broke the dam she’d built so long ago, and all the pent up tears pushed through. The cloak no longer smelled of him.

 

Arya used to say that even Sansa’s crying was ladylike, but as she clutched her father’s remains, her sobs were an ugly thing. She hyperventilated and snorted and twisted up her face, her skin on fire even in the dead of winter. Sansa could never let herself cry this hard in King’s Landing, but perhaps it wouldn’t hurt if she let herself go just this once. She was in the crypt of her home, far away from court, with only her little husband to bear witness.

 

A small hand gently caressed her back as if to answer, and she blinked away her hot tears as she turned to examine his face. There was a deep understanding beneath his watery eyes, and Sansa could read his thoughts as if she and Tyrion were bonded in mind. _It’s okay,_ his eyes said. _I won’t tell anyone._

 

Sansa shifted her embrace of Father to Tyrion, falling into another sobbing fit as soon as her chin rested atop his shoulder. His arms may not have been those of a knight, but they held her in such a way that the grief in her heart lightened.

 

“You were so brave, Sansa,” he told her. “I am so proud of you – so proud of the woman you’ve become.” She reached her hand up to cup his head of Lannister blond curls, a silent appreciation. “We do make a wonderful team, don’t we? Lady Sansa and Lord Tyrion; the Traitor’s Daughter and the Demon Monkey; Slayers of King Joffrey; Lady of Winterfell and Hand of the Queen… and now, Slayers of Wights and Protectors of the Weak. What shall we attempt next? Perhaps Sansa the Tiger Tamer and Tyrion the Fire Eater?” Sansa’s sob turned into a bark of a laugh.

 

“I’m sure the Dragon Queen will be happy to give you that title,” Sansa said, a smile inexplicably finding a way to her lips.

 

“Don’t give her any ideas,” said Tyrion. “I am tantalizingly roastable in the eyes of a dragon.”

 

Sansa pulled away and gazed at her husband, a warmth filling her chest at the sight of him. A few moments ago she thought she was going to die by his side, and she was still trying to understand why she had accepted the idea. She could still feel his hand on her knee, could feel his lips on her hand, could feel his presence by her side as they fought together. He was a little man, yet his grounding presence was the size of a dragon.

 

When she had accepted her death behind her Father’s tomb, looking into Tyrion’s eyes as she gave him the dagger, she had inexplicably thought of their wedding night. She had thought of that day in the throne room when he had helped her up, the look on his face when she said she was only fourteen, the laughter he brought to her in the weeks before Robb was murdered, and the admiration clear in his eyes when he came to Winterfell.

 

Sansa leaned over and laid a kiss on his cheek before getting to her feet.

 

“What was that for, my lady?” Asked Tyrion, voice small.

 

“For everything, Lord Tyrion.” His lips disappeared as he pressed them together in that way he usually did when he was trying not to cry. “To everyone else you may be the Imp, but to me you are more a lion than any other Lannister to walk this earth.”

 

Tyrion didn’t speak but he didn’t have to – the _thank you_ was written across his face.

 

“Let’s leave the dead for tomorrow and spend today with the living,” she commanded.

 

The courtyard was full with cries of mourning and relief alike, and all around people shared embraces amongst the dead. The sun was rising and telling all with its orange glow that the War for Dawn was won. Jon was the first one she spotted, embracing Samwell in front of Viserion’s corpse. She ran towards them, catching their attention before she reached them.

 

“Is Gilly…?” Sam choked out.

 

“She’s alive and well, as is little Sam.” At that, she and Jon were left alone.

 

Sansa embraced her brother as tightly as she had that day in Castle Black. A few relieved tears slipped from her shut eyes.

 

“You made it,” she gasped.

 

“I did,” he said, sounding surprised at the truth of his words.

 

“Was it you? Did you kill the Night King?”

 

“No,” said Jon. “No, it wasn’t me.”

 

“Then who…?” Sansa trailed off at the sound of cheering.

 

Her eyes searched for its source and landed on the gate to the Godswood where Arya was pushing Bran’s wheelchair, gaining applause as they went. As they approached Jon and Sansa, she could see the blue handprint seared into Arya’s neck.

 

“Arya…” Jon breathed.

 

Sansa watched him sprint to capture Arya in his arms, lifting her into the air and spinning her around. Sansa tore her eyes away from them and caught Bran’s stare, its intensity piercing her heart. She made her way to Bran, each step filling her with more dread. When she finally reached him, Jon was cupping Arya’s face and seemingly assessing her for wounds.

 

Sansa didn’t have to speak, Bran just shook his head. Sansa wanted to sob but knew it would have to wait.

 

“We won’t burn his body,” said Sansa, voice hard. “I’ll have him buried in the crypt next to his family.”

 

“He would’ve liked that,” Bran said, a sad sort of smile gracing his lips. “He was very brave in the end, Sansa. He should lay by Robb.”

 

Sansa’s lip wobbled as she forced the lump in her throat back down.

 

“He will… I’ll lay him there myself. And once the castle is recovered, you and I will speak to the stone cutter so Theon’s statue looks like him.”

 

“Only the Lords and Ladies of Winterfell have statues,” said Bran.

 

“I am the Lady of Winterfell and if I say he’ll have a statue, then he’ll have a statue,” Sansa said, the lump bobbing up and down in her throat. “Besides, I want the future Lords of Winterfell to know the face of the man who saved the lives of their ancestors.” Bran gave a single nod of understanding. “But for today he’ll make merry with Father and Robb in the Seven Heavens,” she said, hoping it was true. She wasn’t very religious anymore, but if the Seven Heavens were real, Theon would be there. Sansa calmed herself; there would be time to grieve later. “Is Rickon alright?”

 

“Yes, he’s with Osha and Shaggydog on the battlements,” Bran said, and Sansa breathed a sigh of relief.   

 

“Who else didn’t see the dawn?” Sansa asked.

 

“The 999th Lord Commander, the last of the Mormont’s, and the last of the Lord of Light’s followers.”

 

_Edd,_ she thought, shutting her eyes tight. _Must all the kindest crows perish?_

 

“The last of the Mormont’s?” Jon asked, detaching from Arya. Bran nodded. “Oh, Dany.” A dragon whined and Jon ran toward the noise.

 

Sansa turned to Arya and something like pride filled her. She embraced her little sister and wrinkled her nose at the smell of grime and blood and sweat. She pulled away and kissed Arya’s forehead.

 

“Are you hurt?” Sansa asked. Arya shook her head despite the blood caked in her brow.

 

“You?” Sansa shook her head despite the grief deep in her bones.

 

“There you are, you little shit,” said a familiar, coarse voice. Sansa turned around and saw Sandor Clegane marching straight for them, eyes on Arya. Sansa smiled when his gaze flicked up to her and he stopped his approach.

 

“I think I liked Little Bird a lot more than ‘little shit’,” Sansa said with a smirk. Sandor just looked at her, his softening features suddenly hardening again.

 

“Aye, I bet you did,” he spat, resuming his approach. “Your little sister left me to die, _again_!” Sansa turned on Arya with a lifted eyebrow, but she just shrugged.

 

“You didn’t have to stay there,” Arya said nonchalantly. “And I wasn’t leaving you, I was just going somewhere else.”

 

“What’s the fucking difference?” Sandor was almost shouting.

 

“One is intentional, the other is coincidental,” said Arya.

 

“You really are a cold little bitch,” his words were like the snap of a wolf. “I saved your fucking life.”

 

“And I saved yours, so I’d say we’re even,” said Arya. “You shouldn’t have–”

 

“Would you two stop snapping at each other’s throats?!” Sansa shouted, drawing both their gazes. She clutched her ribs at the exertion and sighed. “There’s been enough fighting this day, so save it for another time.” She reached out and pulled Arya’s collar down to show him the blue mark. “Now, could you please act like civilized people for once in your godsdamned lives?”

 

Sandor huffed and looked at Arya’s mark before the latter pulled her collar back up. “You kill that horned fucker?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Must’ve felt good sticking your blade through the blue shit,” said Sandor. “That why you left me?”

 

“Yes.” Arya tilted her head at him. “You gonna whinge about it anymore?”

 

“Fuck off.”

 

Sansa rolled her eyes and shared a look with Bran, who gave her a rare smile. Then she watched as Arya’s eyes caught something behind Sansa, who turned around to see the Baratheon boy still clutching his hammer.

 

“Go on,” Sansa said, her amusement helping to ease some of her sadness. Arya glanced at Bran and nodded to Sansa before running into the blacksmith’s arms.

 

“Least somebody’s fucking happy,” said Sandor.

 

Sansa examined his face, looking from the still pink scars to the short beard peppered with gray, to the fresh scratch on his cheek, and finally to his brown eyes.

 

“Used to be you couldn’t look at me,” said Sandor.

 

“That was a long time ago, and I’ve seen a lot worse than you since then,” she said, almost sadly. “Besides, your eyes are different.”

 

“What?”

 

“It was never your scars that scared me back then; it was your eyes.” Sansa still remembered how frightened she’d been of him. “They used to be filled with such rage, such hate,” she said gently. “Something has changed in you.”

 

“Nothing’s changed in–”

 

“Violence is a disease,” said Bran. “You don’t cure a disease by spreading it to more people.”

 

Sandor looked taken aback before quickly recovering. “They were right about you,” Sandor said as he pointed at Bran. “Look into your bullshit visions and you’ll see that Ray was a bloody fool and you’ll see that nothing about me changed, especially not by some dumb fucker’s preaching.”

 

Sansa ducked her head as she smiled.

 

“Am I fucking funny to you?” Sandor spat.

 

“You once told me that a dog would never lie to me, yet here you are, lying.” Sansa lightly shook her head at Sandor’s confusion. “I suppose that means you’re not a dog anymore, just as I am no longer a Little Bird. Your anger has been tempered, Sandor Clegane, I can see that.” Sansa cupped his face with her right hand and leaned up to peck him on his scarred cheek. “You shall always have a place in Winterfell.”

 

Sandor stomped off soon after and Sansa stayed with Bran, watching Arya and Gendry. The sun was shining between the two figures, but their joined foreheads blocked the light.

 

“They’re in love,” Bran observed. Sansa turned to look at her little brother. “They just don’t know it yet.” Bran turned his head to two large figures with blond hair glowing in the sun. “But they do.” Sansa squinted at them and her brow furrowed.

 

“Brienne and Ser Jaime?” Sansa asked, bewildered.

 

“She’s Ser Brienne now. They’ve been in love for some time, but the dawn was the one to show them.” Bran looked to her then. “Their wedding will show you.”

 

Sansa tried to parse his meaning as she wheeled him over to where Tyrion was speaking with his brother and Brienne.

 

“–ink you’ve ever looked worse, dear brother,” said Tyrion. Sansa pulled up next to them and gave Brienne a short hug.

 

“That’s because you didn’t see me at my worst.”

 

“Are you all right, my lady?” Brienne asked.

 

“I am,” she said.

 

“Your ribs are _broken_ ,” Tyrion pointed out, sounding exasperated.

 

“I know that, Lord Tyrion,” said Sansa. “I’m alright. Are you hurt, Ser Brienne?”

 

“Only flesh wounds, nothing to worry about.”

 

“And Podrick?”

 

“He’s quite alright as well,” Brienne assured her.

 

“The boy deserves a knighthood,” said Jaime. “Haven’t seen a squire fight like that since _I_ was a squire.”

 

“Always the humble one, you are. But I do believe you’re right,” said Tyrion. “Pod!”

 

“There has never lived a more loyal squire,” Bran said, and Sansa believed him. Podrick had always been so kind to her.

 

Podrick stumbled out of a crowd of people with a wineskin in his grasp. Blood had plastered his hair to his forehead and was caked all over his face, more than even Brienne and Ser Jaime.

 

“Brienne, I think you should do the honors,” said Ser Jaime. When Brienne looked confused, he continued. “I told you any knight could make another knight. He is your squire, you should be the one to knight him.” Sansa looked at the way Brienne’s eyes watered and then she squinted at Jaime, who looked only at Brienne.  

 

“Would you like that, Pod?” Brienne asked, voice hoarse.

 

“Very much, Ser,” was his answer, the last word watery.

 

If there was any doubt left in her mind that Bran spoke for true about Brienne and Jaime, the looks that they shared while she knighted Pod was enough. When it was done, Tyrion escorted the newly knighted Podrick away for a celebration and Sansa charged Brienne with taking Bran to his rooms so that she was left alone with the Kingslayer.

 

“Lady Stark, I offer my condolences for your losses,” Ser Jaime said politely.

 

“Have you told her that you’re in love with her?” Sansa asked. She enjoyed his shock immensely.

 

“Pardon?”

 

“Brienne, have you told Brienne you’re in love with her?” Sansa repeated.

 

“I- I…” Jaime fumbled for his words, apparently resigning his efforts when Sansa held her gaze firm. “I’m going to, later today.”

 

“Good.” Jaime’s brow knitted together. “You should tell her before it’s too late - I assume Tormund will be proposing sometime soon. She deserves to be happy, Ser Jaime. She’s in love with you, only the gods know why, but she is. And I think you can make her happy.”

 

“Thank you, Lady Sansa.”

 

“And Ser Jaime?” She began just as he went to leave. “My sister killed the Night King. She shall have no trouble killing you should you break my sworn shield’s heart.”

 

Ser Jaime gave her a wide smile. “Yes, my lady.”

 

Sansa watched him go and took a deep breath as she surveyed her home. It would take weeks to gather up all the dead, and months to repair the damage to the castle. She would have to start right away, but for now she simply stood and basked in the light of the dawn.

 

“Lady Stark?” Came Ser Davos’ voice. She turned her gaze to him and smiled.

 

“I’m happy to see you well, Ser Davos,” said Sansa.

 

“And I you, my lady,” he said. “Did your sister make it?”

 

“Yes she did.” His relief was visible. “She killed the Night King.”

 

“She did?” Davos asked, struck with awe. Sansa answered him with a nod. “I saw her fight in the battle, it was like… like she was…”

 

“The wind?” Sansa supplied.

 

“Exactly. Who taught her to fight?”

 

“No one,” she said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote most of this work in a haze during the week after 8x03, so let me know if you spot any errors. D&D killed so many character arcs in just 2 episodes and now it’s my job to fix it. Kudos and comments are my lifeblood!!
> 
> My tumblr is [thorthedorkworld](thorthedorkworld.tumblr.com)


	2. The Golden Lion and the Maid of Tarth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for you, Nikolaj Coster-Waldau, you poor bastard.

* * *

**Jaime**

 

Jaime winced as he struggled to remove his golden hand and then dropped it impetuously onto the desk. He rubbed at the blisters that had formed from the constant chafing and sighed, shrugging off his tunic without untying the laces. He was covered in scratches and scrapes and bruises, but he – remarkably – had no serious injuries. Still he grimaced when he eased into the bath that was drawn for him, the hot water stinging his open wounds.

 

He sighed as the warmth seeped into his skin then down into his muscles and soon he was dozing off. His muscles ached as though he fought for weeks when it had only been a few hours, and exhaustion weighed down his very bones.

 

 _I’m getting too damn old for this,_ he thought as he wavered in and out of consciousness. _I must needs settle down after this is over._

 

The thought of ‘after’ was a jest in his mind for he was most certainly going to die in the next war, yet those blue eyes never failed to haunt him when he considered it. Those blue eyes and a vision of Tarth beaches… where he made castles out of sand underneath the shimmering sun. It would never be more than a dream.

 

A knock startled him out of his almost-sleep and he winced at the chilly water.

 

“Ser Jaime?” Said Brienne. “Could I speak with you?”

 

“Enter,” he answered, raising his arms out of the murky water to rest on the tub.

 

Brienne was clean and dressed in a fresh tunic and trousers, not a speck of grime to be seen on her person. Her face reddened in a way that delighted Jaime when she glanced into the bath.

 

“It’s nothing you haven’t seen before, my lady,” he said, the memory of her body unwillingly coming to mind. Perhaps she was thinking of Harrenhal as well, for she stood motionless at the door. “Could you shut the door before I catch a cough?” That was enough to snap her out of whatever it was she’d been thinking and she quickly closed the door, averting her eyes.

 

“Should I come back another time?” The color in her face suited her, and the satisfaction of making her blush suited him better still.

 

“No, this is as good a time as any other,” said Jaime. “Could you hand me that towel?” Brienne held it out for him and he stood in all his nakedness before he took it, eyes never leaving hers.

 

“I’d ask you to towel me dry if I thought you wouldn’t disembowel me,” he said, giving her a smug smile when she frowned in anger.

 

“I’ll come back later,” she said through gritted teeth.

 

“Wait,” said Jaime. She was in a poor mood for jokes, it seemed. But then, when was she ever not? “I meant no offense, ser.” He raised his arms in surrender and the towel went with them, leaving him bare. “I’m just quite poor at these things.”

 

She was pointedly not looking at him so he finished drying himself in defeat. He was getting better at dressing himself but it still took him longer than was normal and he could sense her growing discomfort.

 

“If you cannot even dress yourself properly, how did you survive that battle?” Jaime chuckled as he continued to struggle with his laces.

 

“As I recall, I had a brave knight looking out for me,” he said, then grinned at her scowl. “I’d never have survived without you,” said Jaime, more sincerely this time. He wasn’t only referring to the previous night.

 

“Nor I without you, Ser Jaime.” Brienne looked away and they didn’t speak after that.

 

“Do the people of House Tarth’s hair never darken in the winter?” He asked to break the tense quiet.

 

“No, never,” she replied, visibly grateful for the change in conversation.

 

“Why is that?” He was genuinely curious. “A Lannister needs the sun to keep their golden hair.” Jaime finished the last of his laces and she gave him an indifferent shrug.

 

“People say it’s our Targaryen blood,” she said as if discussing the weather.

 

“You have  _Targaryen_ blood?”

 

“It’s very distant but yes.” Brienne huffed. “I didn’t come here to talk about my ancestors.” Jaime smiled and sat on the edge of his bed so he could look up at her.

 

“I’m listening,” said Jaime.

 

“Good. I– I want to know if we can count on you in the next war.” His smile faded. “You have fulfilled your oath to us and are not honorbound to remain on our side.”

 

He had never even considered returning when he climbed on that horse, though he supposed he hadn’t the impression he’d be alive _to_ return.

 

“If I return to King’s Landing now, I’m not sure my sister won’t have the Mountain crush my head in like Oberyn bloody Martell.”

 

“You did not part on good terms,” Brienne said, a question.

 

“I haven’t been on _good terms_ with her in a very long time. Even if I was, I wouldn’t want to go back,” said Jaime, not wanting to talk about Cersei any longer. Brienne gave a quick, solitary nod but didn’t speak. “Do you– do you want me to go back to my sister?”

 

“No!” Brienne shouted quickly, blushing. “I know there is no oath binding you to the North, but you are a valuable ally and losing you would be a great loss for us.”

 

“Am I just an ally to you?” Jaime asked, voice barely above a whisper.

 

“What?” Brienne nearly spat the word and Jaime looked up at her, pleading. “You know that I… you know that you mean more to me than that.”

 

“Then who am I to you?” Jaime barely heard the words himself. “If not an ally, what?”

 

“Jaime, don’t.” His brow furrowed as he looked back and forth between her eyes, lips parted. _She thinks I’m mocking her,_ he realized.

 

He stood from the bed and took one step before falling into a kneel at her feet, just as she had done hours before when he had tapped her shoulders three times and made her a knight. Tormund could talk all he wanted but it was Jaime who knighted her, it was _him_ who had given her this. He had memorized every detail; the clink of her armor as she walked to him as a woman walks to her bridegroom, the way the tears in her eyes shone in the firelight, and how she looked at him like he hung the stars. It was the first time he’d ever seen her smile – _really_ smile, and he was the one who put it there.

 

It had felt as though they were the only two people in the world. It would’ve been enough to die after that, yet he still drew breath and the woman he loved was standing right in front of him.

 

“Brienne, I– I told you I’m not the fighter I used to be.” _This is your chance._ “I’m getting old, Brienne, and any battle could be my last. When I rode north, I didn’t think I was going to survive the war, but I came anyway.” Jaime took a deep breath and craned his neck up to meet her watery sapphire eyes. “I came to Winterfell so I could fight beside you, so I could die by your side if need be, so I could die _for_ you. You are… I want to fight beside you in every battle you see, not for the Stark’s or Lannister’s or the bloody Dragon Queen, but for _you_.”

 

A single tear slipped down her cheek and he wanted to kiss it away, he wanted to kiss _her_.

 

“Why?” She asked through her gasp, incredulous. He wanted to laugh.

 

“Because I’m in love with you, Ser Brienne of Tarth,” he said, and it was so easy to say that he wondered why he hadn’t months ago. Jaime could hear her sharp intake of breath, but he didn’t stop – he stood up to look at her eye-to-eye. “During the battle I thought I was going to lose you, and… and the thought of losing you was like the thought of my heart being torn from my chest. That heart – the heart that beats inside me – it belongs to you, Brienne, no matter how hard I tried to let you go. That’s why I want to fight for you, that’s why I rode north. It's why I gave you that sword and it’s why I jumped into that pit.”

 

Brienne looked into his eyes, seemingly searching them for falsehood. “You can’t mean that,” she said, choking on the words.

 

“I do,” said Jaime. “I do. But I– I am not a good man, Brienne. I have sinned more times than I care to remember and I have no right hand, no castle, no people, not a thing to give you but my heart. It will always be yours, I wanted you to know that before it’s all over. You deserve a better man than me. Hells, even that Tormund would be a better match.”

 

“ _‘A better match’?!_ ” Brienne was suddenly very angry, and the grasp at his tunic was strong enough to rip the fabric. “Is that what you think I want?” Her hands were shaking.

 

“I think you want an honorable man by your side,” Jaime breathed. “Someone better than me.”

 

“You’re right,” said Brienne. Jaime gave a single, short nod and bit the inside of his cheek. “I do want an honorable man… I want  _you_.”

 

Jaime opened his mouth to protest but then Brienne was crashing her lips against his and he felt like he was flying. She didn’t know what she was doing – their teeth clashed and her tongue was sloppy, but it was the best kiss he’d ever had. He cupped her head with his hand and smiled against the kiss until they had to stop. But when he looked at her, looked at the most honorable woman in Westeros, he couldn’t forget all the things she didn’t know about him any longer. Jaime’s smile fell, and he stepped away. He hated the devastation clear on her face, hated that he made her look like that.

 

“You don’t know what kind of man I am, Brienne, you don’t know what you’re doing,” Jaime said, forcing the words out. He stumbled as he backed into a table to get away from her – to stop himself from just kissing her.

 

“I know well enough,” said Brienne. “I know I love you,” Jaime’s breath turned sharp at her admission, “and I know you love me, what more is there to know?”

 

“ _Everything_. The things I’ve done, Brienne…” he breathed. “How many oaths broken, how many injustices?”

 

“You’re a different man now, we both know that.”

 

“I’m sure that’s quite comforting to the people whose lives I ruined,” said Jaime.

 

“Well it’s enough for me.” He shook his head.

 

“It wouldn’t be if you knew.”

 

“Then tell me,” she said, voice even, “if that’s what it takes.”

 

He didn’t want her to know everything; he knew she would never love him once she knew, yet he couldn’t live with himself if she didn’t. Jaime looked to the floor – he couldn’t look at the disgust that she would have once he began to talk.

 

“When I was made a Kingsguard, I listened to Aerys fucking Targaryen raping his wife and I did nothing, because Arthur Dayne told me to.” Queen Rhaella’s screams still haunted his nightmares. “I could’ve marched into their chambers and killed the king – it would’ve been the right thing to do – but I valued my life more than saving the queen. When I finally got the balls to kill him, it was at the cost of three innocent lives. See, I was meant to be protecting Rhaegar’s wife and children the day I killed the Mad King, and I wasn’t there to save them from that damned Mountain.”

 

“That wasn’t your fault,” Brienne said before he could continue.

 

“Let me finish.” Jaime took four deep breaths. “I– I… seven years ago, when a ten year old boy climbed up that broken tower here in Winterfell, he saw me fucking my sister and I pushed him out of the tower for it. And I– and Joffrey and Tommen and Myrcella were my children, born of my seed, born of my _sin_. I loved them, Brienne. Even after all the things Joffrey did I still loved him, and even after all the things Cersei did I still loved her. I always knew what she was, yet I loved her anyway. Cersei and I, we… we had been sleeping with each other since we were ten years old.” Jaime continued through Brienne’s sharp inhale. “I loved her and I hated her, and she loved and hated me. When I was Robb Stark’s prisoner, I killed my own cousin without a second thought to get back to her. I would’ve killed every bloody man in Riverrun to see her again. What’s the worst thing you’ve done, hmm? Killing a damned fly?” By the end of it his breathing was ragged and his eyes were wet.

 

“Is that it?” Asked Brienne. When Jaime looked back up at her in shock, her eyes did not give away her feelings.

 

“‘ _Is that it’_?!” Jaime spat, addled. “Do you need to hear more to understand what kind of man I am? I’ve done plenty more bad things but I think those were the godsdamned highligh–”

 

“Do you still love her?” The question startled him and he wavered on his feet. Brienne’s eyes were pleading.

 

 _Do you?_ He asked himself.

 

He breathed, “No,” and a weight lifted from his shoulders. “A part of my love for her died with my sword hand, and with each inch of love for her gone, another love grew. Any love I had left for her died when the Great Sept of Baelor lit up in green flames.”

 

Brienne took two great strides and kissed him hard enough to bruise, letting his tongue explore her mouth until she learned how to reciprocate, only pulling away when they needed air.

 

“Are you–?” Jaime said, and he felt Brienne’s puffs of hot air on his mouth. “Are you sure about this?”

 

Jaime knew she deserved better than he and now Brienne knew too, but he could allow himself to hope she would make this mistake.

 

“I’ve never been more sure about anything,” was Brienne’s answer.

 

Brienne knew what kind of man he was, knew his darkest sins, yet still she wanted him.

 

Jaime let out a sigh of relief through his smile, launching himself at her and kissing like it was his last day on earth. She got better at it by the second, and he grew happier by the second. _She wants me,_ he thought, tasting the love of his life. _Brienne of Tarth wants_ me. _I don’t deserve her but she wants me and I’ll do everything possible to make her happy._

 

“I don’t– I’ve never kissed anyone before,” she said when they broke apart, breathless. Jaime chuckled against her mouth.

 

“I’ve never kissed a knight before, so I’d say we’re even.” Jaime gazed down at her rare smile and loved that he put it there, loved the thought of putting it there till the end of his days. Their next kiss was rougher. “You are the most fantastic woman I’ve ever known,” he said, resting his forehead on hers. “Just do what feels good.”

 

Glasses shattered on the stone as Brienne pushed him against the table with the force of her kiss.

 

“I love you, Jaime,” she whispered. His heart wanted to burst as tears began to fall.

 

Jaime had never known love could be such a pure thing as the love he felt for Brienne. He may have given almost all of his years to Cersei but this love… this love felt like it had been tearing at his heart for centuries. It felt so _right_.

 

“Marry me?” He croaked.

 

Brienne pulled away and Jaime worried he had gone too far until she lifted him up into the air by the backs of his thighs and carried him around the bed.

 

“Oh,” he gasped, an unfamiliar feeling blooming in his gut. She dropped him on top of the furs and the bed bounced. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so aroused in my entire life.”

 

Jaime shrugged off his shirt and propped himself up on his elbows to see Brienne hesitating where she stood.

 

“I want to marry you,” she said. Jaime’s lip wobbled, then he wanted to laugh at the thought of his father finally getting what he wanted. “And I… I want this. But I don’t know what I’m doing.”

 

Jaime stood and captured her lips in another kiss, more gentle this time.

 

“I’ll show you.” Jaime helped her out of her shirt and winced at the freshly bandaged wounds. He ran his hand along her many scars; he caressed her three pronged claw scars, the bite marks, the long healed white scars and the fresh pink ones. The last scar he touched was the one on her lip, the one he could feel when he kissed her.

 

“Do you always have your chest binded like this?” Jaime asked, thumbing the cloth.

 

“I don’t ever want to be ill-prepared for a fight,” she said, looking away. “And I can’t exactly wear a bloody corset under my armor.”

 

Jaime laughed at the image of Brienne in a corset and began to undo the binding. “A small mercy I suppose,” said Jaime. “It’d take me a century to take off a corset with one hand.”

 

He slowly unwrapped her breasts from their binding, listening to her breathing quicken. Her breasts sprung free and Jaime rubbed the binding’s indentations out of her skin, her small gasps going straight to his cock. “So beautiful,” he murmured. He took one of her breasts in his mouth and delighted in her moan. “I want to know every inch of your skin.”

 

“Jaime,” she said impatiently, and he reluctantly pulled away.

 

“Could you–?” Jaime began, suddenly sheepish. “Could you do that thing again?” Brienne gave him a rare smile and lifted him in the air, her breasts pressed against his bare middle. Jaime had never felt this way before, but now he was addicted and determined to feel more of it. “Lay me down and get on top,” he beckoned.

 

“This isn’t the way it’s usually done,” she observed, obeying him anyway. She straddled him and Jaime bucked up against her trousers, drawing a moan out of her.

 

“No, it isn’t,” agreed Jaime. “But what about us is usual? I want you to be on top.”

 

Brienne seemed to concur because she undressed to her smallclothes and began to ride him like a horse. Jaime felt like he was six and ten once more, moaning and groaning like a maiden. It had been so long since he’d wanted a woman as much as he did now. And want her he did.

 

“Brienne, if you don’t do something about my trousers I’m going to make a mess of them,” he said, smirking at her blush. She slid them off and then made a face at his smallclothes before tearing them right off him, throwing them across the room towards the shattered glass. His cock sprung free and grew even harder against her, unused to the sheer power of the woman above him. “Oh, _Gods, Brienne!_ ”

 

“Are you alright?” She asked genuinely. Jaime laughed and sat up with her in his lap, kissing from her breasts all the way up to her lips.

 

“I’m not alright, I’m bloody  _marvelous_ ,” said Jaime. He looked up into her blue eyes and cupped her face with his hand before capturing her lips in the most loving kiss he’d ever experienced. When he pulled away a few tears fell from his eyes. _I’ve never cried during sex before,_ he thought. _No, this isn’t sex, this is making love._ “I've wanted this for so long, Brienne. And I’ve never wanted my right hand more than I do now. I want to feel every single part of you.”

 

Brienne was silently crying too when she lowered her hand to grasp his stump, pulling it up to rest on her left cheek. “Then feel,” she whispered. Jaime gasped and a sob broke free from his throat with it. He buried his face in her neck where the bear’s scars were before letting himself weep, lowering his arms to rest his hand on the small of her back and his stump around her middle. She wrapped her long arms around him and put her cheek against his hair, whispering soothing words of comfort.

 

“Oh, Jaime,” she said, regretful. “When I said I wanted to marry you, I meant _all_ of you.” That only made him weep harder. “I hate that bloody golden hand, y’know. It hides who you are– it hides a part of you from me that I love.”

 

Brienne pulled him away and reached around herself to take his stump in hand. He squinted through his tears at her as she leaned down and laid kisses along the scar and around it, and Jaime could see no hint of disgust. If she _was_ disgusted, she hid it very well.

 

“It doesn’t– it doesn’t bother– bother you?” Jaime hiccuped, trying and failing to get his emotions in check. Brienne shook her head.

 

“Of course not,” she said. “It’s a part of you. How could I be bothered by a part of you?” Jaime couldn’t understand how she could think that, but he knew she was a terrible liar. Cersei never bothered to hide her disgust at his stump and he never blamed her, for he was disgusted by it as well.

 

He put his hand on one side of her face and his stump on the other as tears flowed, taking her lips into a passionate kiss that he hoped portrayed his feelings.

 

“I’m– I’m sorry for crying,” he said, wiping away his tears.

 

“I’ll make it better,” she said, rolling her hips. Jaime moaned and suddenly his cock was hardening again.

 

“Yes,” he gasped.

 

She ripped off her own smallclothes and Jaime groaned at the wetness against his manhood. He reached his hand down to her golden curls and rubbed at her bud, smiling when she half-shouted. He rubbed circles into it until Brienne was gasping and thrusting her hips against his thumb. She batted his hand away and lifted herself up on her knees over his lap, sitting down on his cock in one fluid motion.

 

“Brienne,” he groaned, overwhelmed by her slick heat. His thrusts were met with no resistance but that was no surprise since Brienne had been riding horses for the better part of her life.

 

He found her bud again and rubbed it until she was moaning and sliding up and down on him. He picked up his pace and she shouted as the heat around his cock spasmed and she went slack against him. But then she pushed him against the bed and adjusted herself on top of him and all he could do was lay back and watch her as she rode him like her life depended on it. Jaime was never very religious, but he felt like worshipping this woman as he held her thighs and watched as her mouth opened and her eyes wrinkled as she held them shut.

 

The old wooden frame under them began to groan and creak with the force and weight of them – two heavily built warriors fucking desperately – until there was a snap of wood breaking and the bed collapsed. Jaime laughed as she gasped and fell on him, the bed forming a ‘V’ against the collapsed frame.

 

“Shit,” she grunted and Jaime laughed all the harder.

 

“I’d like to break every bed in Winterfell with you, Ser,” he breathed, a breathless laugh falling from his lips.

 

“We should stop, we can’t continue on the bed.”

 

“Perish the thought,” he murmured. He rolled them over twice so Jaime’s back was against the cold stone floor and she was still straddling him. “We’ll continue on the floor, the wall, or the table – anywhere is good enough,” he said, massaging her thighs and receiving a hum of approval.

 

She lowered her hand down to her bud and rubbed herself as she began to bounce up and down on his cock again, chanting his name with each thrust. The sight was enough to send him over the edge and he practically screamed her name as he finished. His tears never ceased to escape the corners of his eyes but they were tears born of overwhelming love and he didn’t care.

 

Jaime sat up and rolled them over so he was on top, sliding out of her and smirking at her protest. He crawled down her until his mouth was over her curls and devoured her with his tongue. He slipped his fingers into her and suckled at her bud, trying not to smile when she dug her fingers into his hair to hold him there. He could taste himself in her but he couldn’t care less with the noises she was making. But then she surprised him again when she flipped them back over with her legs and knelt over his face. He moved his hand to her breasts and simply let her ride his tongue.

 

 _It’s like we’re sparring,_ he thought. _I’m going to make love with this woman every day until I die._

 

A few of her curls tickled his nose as he breathed through it, overwhelmed by her scent. When she clenched around his tongue Jaime was hard again, and he wanted to retract his earlier statement about getting old. Apparently she was making him young again. She rolled over on the floor and Jaime crawled up and kissed her.

 

“I’m sorry for acting like that,” she said with a blush, as if she hadn’t just used him like a toy. Jaime wanted her to use him again.

 

“You are the most wonderful thing I’ve ever seen,” Jaime said. “And that was… that was _amazing_.”

 

“Truly?”

 

“Can we… can we do that again?” Asked Jaime. “I’ve never been the– never been on the bottom before.”

 

“And you liked it?”

 

“I loved it.” Jaime turned a bit red. “But this floor is cold.”

 

Brienne nodded and Jaime gasped as she simply picked him up, standing with him in her arms.

 

“You like this,” she said, a question. Jaime nodded and closed his eyes.

 

She walked across the room like he weighed nothing and put him up against the wall by the fireplace, holding him by the back of his thighs. He let his legs dangle on either side of her, laying his head against the wall as he let her hold him. _This woman is going to be the death of me,_ he thought as she rammed into him over and over. She kissed him passionately, then kissed down his neck and collarbone, leaving marks as she went. _Let them see. Let them see that I belong to her._

 

“Brienne, Brienne, Brienne,” he chanted like a prayer, feeling utterly under her control.

 

He wrapped his legs around her waist and pulled her in with each thrust, gasping when she used one free hand to caress his balls. He tried to grab onto something and ended up yanking down a sconce but he didn’t care, instead he tangled his hand in her hair and rested his stump on her back.

 

“I’m in love with you, Jaime Lannister,” she said. “After all this we can go to Tarth and sail along the Sapphire Isles and play on the beach with no one to come between us.” Jaime screamed when he finished inside her.

 

Jaime whispered proclamations of love into her skin as they lay side by side that night until sleep carried him away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to Sansa and Tyrion next chapter. I had originally planned for this just to be a sanrion fic but my love for braime got the better of me, and I hope I did them justice. I can rest easy knowing I did better than the shit d&d did to them lol
> 
> This is only my second time writing smut so idk what I’m doing, but I had to write it cause there simply isn’t enough bottom Jaime on ao3. Hope you enjoyed my subtle nod to the wonderful fic [Ten Broken Beds by Miss_M](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1038814/chapters/2072531)
> 
> Constructive criticism is welcome! As always I love comments and kudos <3


	3. The Ruined Crypt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took a bit longer, I decided to make this a longer story so I could fix the GoT ending, and I've been planning more chapters. Good news: I am going to fix everybody's character arcs and I'm going to save everybody (minus a few bad guys) cause I can.

 

**Tyrion**

 

The Great Hall flooded with the survivors of the Battle for Winterfell as they gathered to break their fast. Once Tyrion made his way inside he surveyed the room, finding Northerners sitting with Unsullied and Dothraki alike. Atop the dais Jon sat next to Daenerys with Ghost at their feet, and beside Jon sat Rickon with Shaggydog. Tyrion frowned and searched the room again, finding that head of red hair among the trestle tables. Curious, he went to her.

 

“Not on the dais today?” He asked. Sansa turned and smiled when her gaze met his. 

 

“Today I’m eating with my people,” said Sansa. Tyrion sat across from her and Ser Brienne. On Sansa’s left was Grey Worm and Missandei, their hands entwined on the table. 

 

“Lady Stark was telling us about direwolves,” said Grey Worm. “Ghost is first wolf this one has seen.” 

 

“Please, continue,” Tyrion said, pouring himself some wine. It was the only wine on any of the tables, he noticed. He frowned at it and then saw Sansa’s expression.  _ Ah,  _ he thought.  _ Clever wolf.  _

 

“I was trying to explain the connection we Stark’s have with our wolves,” Sansa began. “It is like we share minds; I could always tell when my wolf was in distress, and when she died it was like losing a part of myself. Arya can warg into Nymeria and lead her pack of wolves on hunts. Jon and Rickon can warg into their wolves too, as Bran did with Summer before he died. When a catspaw assassin tried to kill Bran, his wolf knew he was in trouble and ran across the castle to him.”

 

“Is this why he cannot walk?” Missandei asked. 

 

“No, Summer ripped out the assassin’s throat. Bran lost his legs before that, when he fell.” Sansa looked to Tyrion when she said that, and his chest tightened.  _ She knows.  _ “Come, Ghost,” she called. 

 

All the foreigners turned their heads to warily watch the direwolf but none of the Northerners even spared a glance. Ghost trotted around the table to stand behind Sansa, and Grey Worm and Missandei turned in their seats. Ghost bowed his head and Sansa put her forehead to his. Tyrion could see his red eyes close as she scratched behind his white ears and the wolf hummed happily. 

 

“It’s like we are bound to direwolves,” she said. “They can even understand what we say.” 

 

“Truly?” Asked Missandei. 

 

“Yes, I’ll show you,” said Sansa. “Ghost, give Missandei a kiss.” 

 

Ghost went to Missandei, ignoring Grey Worm’s defensive stance, and sniffed her face before licking a stripe up her cheek. The Northerners did spare a glance then, and all observed as Missandei of Naath pet Jon Snow’s direwolf. The tension disappeared from Grey Worm’s shoulders and he, too, ran a hand through the wolf’s white fur. Tyrion noticed that Sansa’s eyes were not on the scene before her, but on the Northmen watching the two Essosi. 

 

“I remember when Ghost was just a pup,” Tyrion said.  _ Jon Snow was a pup then as well,  _ he mused. “Have they always understood you?”

 

“Yes,” Sansa said immediately. “But they don’t just understand us – they feel what we feel. That’s probably why Nymeria attacked Joffrey and why Shaggydog is such a wild little thing.” 

 

“Does that mean Ghost likes to brood and look forlorn all the time?” Tyrion inquired. Ghost looked at him and came around the table, snatching a sausage from his plate. “Hey!” 

 

“Ghost, come ‘ere,” said Jon, amused. The direwolf returned to his master in two bounds and laid at Jon’s feet. 

 

“I told you they understand us,” Sansa said with a smirk. 

 

“This bond you share with wolf,” Grey Worm began, “it is like the Queen with her children.” 

 

“Her children?” Sansa asked. 

 

“Her dragons are her children,” Tyrion said, earning Sansa’s gaze. She looked confused for a moment before quickly hiding it. “She may not have labored, but she gave life to them all the same.”

 

“When Queen Daenerys lost Viserion, she said a part of herself died with him,” said Missandei. Sansa looked to Daenerys and Tyrion hoped that someday, somehow, Sansa would learn to like her. 

 

“She is taking Ser Jorah’s death very hard,” Sansa observed. 

 

“Jorah was good man, always there when the Queen needed him,” said Grey Worm. 

 

“My father was going to execute him for selling slaves,” said Sansa, eyes turning back to Tyrion. “Queen Daenerys is known for her hatred of slavery.” It was a question. 

 

“The Queen is a forgiving woman, Lady Sansa. Jorah proved himself to be worthy and she forgave him for his past sins.” Tyrion took a sip of wine and smiled.  _ This is good,  _ he thought.  _ Maybe I can convince her. _

 

“Queen Daenerys give second chances,” Grey Worm said. “She forgive Yara’s people for raping and pillaging, and Ser Jaime for killing her father.” 

 

They ate silently until the Hound came stomping into the Great Hall. Tyrion frowned at Sansa’s fond smile. 

 

“Sandor,” she called, and Tyrion’s frown deepened. Since when were they on a first name basis? The Hound grunted at her. “Come and sit with us, there is a seat for you.” Sansa gestured to the empty spot on Tyrion’s left, across from Brienne. The Hound stood still for a moment before obeying Sansa’s request. “Have you seen Arya this morning?” 

 

“Why the fuck you asking me?” The Hound huffed. Tyrion scooted an inch away from him. “She robbed me and left me to die after this one,” he gestured to Brienne with his fork, “beat me bloody with a rock and pushed me off a cliff. So no, I didn’t see your little wolf bitch sister this morning.” The Hound stabbed a sausage and chewed on it like a rabid dog. Sansa never stopped smiling, but Grey Worm stood abruptly and grasped his dagger. Tyrion watched curiously as Sansa placed a hand on Grey Worm’s to stop him from drawing his weapon. 

 

“Hound has insulted the Lady Arya Stark,” said Grey Worm. “Shall I cut out his tongue?” Tyrion chuckled against his wine glass. 

 

“It’s alright, Grey Worm,” Sansa said. “Sandor is quite fond of my sister, truly.” The Hound huffed.

 

“Used to be that I protected you, not the other way around,” Clegane said through his mouthful of food. “Well I don’t need your bloody protection.” 

 

“I married into the Lannister family,” Sansa said with a nod toward Tyrion. He raised his glass in acknowledgement. “Don’t you think I should at least try to pay this debt I owe you?” The Hound snorted. 

 

“You don’t owe me any bloody debt,” grunted Clegane. “I didn’t do it to get paid.”

 

Tyrion was thrust back into a startlingly clear memory of the day of the riot in the capital; Tyrion had ordered Meryn Trant to find Sansa and the damned worm had refused, and then Sandor fucking Clegane had marched in with her over his shoulder.  _ “Well done, Clegane,” _ he had said.  _ “I didn’t do it for you,” _ the Hound had barked. If he didn’t do it for the people he served, and he didn’t do it to get paid… 

 

_ I’ll have to think on that later, _ Tyrion thought. 

 

“No, I don’t owe you a debt, but I’m going to try and pay it anyway.” After a long silence, Sansa sent Brienne a little smile and Tyrion squinted at her. “There’s many missing this morning; Arya and Gendry… Ser Jaime… I’m surprised you made it, Ser Brienne.” Tyrion and Sansa shared a smile, and Tyrion couldn’t resist. 

 

“A fascinating mystery, indeed. Perhaps my brother overworked himself yesterday… too much physical exertion can be  _ exhausting, _ ” Tyrion glanced pointedly at Brienne, “for an older man like him.” 

 

As if on cue, his brother came up behind him and sat on his right. 

 

“Ah, Jaime, we were just–” Tyrion started, his words dying in his throat when he looked up at his brother. He wore a low tunic that displayed an array of suckle marks all along his neck and collar. Jaime wore the most devilish grin he’d ever seen. “My Gods, Jaime, you look like you ran into an octopod.” Jaime chuckled and Tyrion noted the peculiar absence of his golden hand. Tyrion had not ever seen him without the bloody thing on, not even when he had first gotten back in the capital. 

 

“Or a very enthusiastic whore,” the Hound added. “Been visiting the local br-?”

 

“We don’t have any septons in the North, Ser Jaime,” said Sansa, interrupting him. “Northern weddings are much shorter, and are held in front of the weirwood. If it can’t wait, you and Ser Brienne could be married in Winterfell in sight of the Old Gods.” 

 

Tyrion turned to look at the newly knighted Brienne, who was blushing furiously and staring directly at her plate. Then he looked at his brother who was grinning madly at said knight. 

 

“No, I don’t think it can wait at all,” Jaime said.  _ He finally realized he’s in love with her.  _ Tyrion was no fool, he’d seen the looks the two had given each other. It apparently only took a war against the dead for Jaime to get his head out of his arse. 

 

“I think it’s a lovely idea,” Tyrion said. He’d never seen Jaime as happy as he looked now, never seen a smile as bright as the one he gave Brienne. Tyrion shared an amused look with Sansa and raised his glass to Brienne. “I like your prospects as a sister much better than Cersei’s.” 

 

“I’d be honored to call you brother, Lord Tyrion,” said Brienne. 

 

Tyrion thought back to that day in the dungeons - thought back to Oberyn Martell’s story. Tyrion never hated Cersei as much as Tywin, yet Cersei hated Tyrion more than anyone in the world. She was always so cruel, so hateful, but she was still his sister. His  _ only  _ sister. And now… now he would have another, a different sister who was kind and just. 

 

“Yes, much better than Cersei,” he said to hide the lump in his throat. 

 

“Then it’s settled?” Asked Sansa. Brienne and Jaime shared a look and Brienne was the one to confirm. “Good. A peaceful wedding is just what the North needs.” Tyrion noted her use of ‘peaceful’. “Though, I’m afraid resources are low, Ser Jaime, so you’ll have to make do with Brienne’s bed until we can afford a more…  _ sturdy  _ option,” said Sansa. Missandei giggled and the Hound snorted into his plate. Tyrion arched an eyebrow at his brother. 

 

“I understand, Lady Stark,” Jaime laughed. “If need be we can make the floor our marriage bed.” 

 

“ _ Jaime! _ ” Brienne hissed. 

 

“I’ll not have my sworn shield with a back injury, Ser,” Sansa said with a sly smile. 

 

“You don’t have to worry about that happening,” Jaime was practically purring and Tyrion covered his smile with his glass. “Not to her, at least.” The Hound suddenly burst into deep, bellowing laughter and people all around turned their heads. Missandei and Grey Worm were murmuring in Valyrian as Sansa chuckled. 

 

“Brienne,” said Sansa once her plate was bare, “I’ll be in the crypt today should anyone need to speak with me.” 

 

Sansa stood from the table and went up on the dais where she spoke a few words to Daenerys before leaving the hall. Tyrion saw the queen discreetly wipe her eyes and he went to her, concerned. 

 

“Are you alright?” Tyrion asked. “What did she say?”

 

“She told me it was good that Ser Jorah died on his homeland fighting for his queen, and offered to send a few more of her men to Bear Island when they go to bury Lyanna Mormont so– so Jorah can lay with his family.” Jon held her hand under the table. 

 

“We can spare a few days to fly up there and see them buried,” Jon offered. 

 

Daenerys nodded, her eyes filling up with tears. 

 

“Can I go?” Came Rickon’s voice, muffled over his food. “I’ve never been to Bear Island.”

 

“You’ve also never ridden a dragon before,” said Jon, stern.

 

“Tormund and Gendry got to ride a dragon!” Tyrion watched as Jon visibly caved in and relented to Rickon. 

 

Jon took the queen away so she wouldn’t be seen crying and Tyrion was grateful Daenerys had someone while she grieved. Tyrion watched Ghost follow them and went to follow someone of his own. 

 

He descended the stairs into the crypt and found Sansa kneeling in front of her father’s tomb. Tyrion watched curiously as she removed her gloves and began to put her father back in his resting place bone by bone. 

 

“Should I– would you prefer some time alone, Lady Sansa?” He asked hesitantly, watching her continue as if he’d never spoke. 

 

“I am never alone in the crypt,” she said quietly, as if she didn’t intend for him to hear it. “You may join me, my lord.” 

 

“Thank you for what you did today, with Ghost and Missandei,” he said as he approached her. “What better way is there to make Essosi seem Northern to a Northerner, than to throw a direwolf into the mix?” 

 

“Northerners are a stubborn lot,” said Sansa. “Ever since my father and the Red Wedding… they just haven’t trusted anyone not from the North.”

 

“And you have?”

 

“The Bolton’s were Northerners,” she said in lieu of an answer. “My people need a common cause, so they pit the North against everyone else. They forget that the Bolton’s were our countrymen. They forget that my mother was a Tully, that their queen was a Volantene. The North remembers what it wants to.” 

 

“Well, we shall just have to remind them,” said Tyrion. “Should you be doing this by yourself?” 

 

“It should be a Stark who does it. Rickon is too young, Bran is in a wheelchair, Jon is too busy, and Arya doesn’t need anymore grief. But it should be a Stark who does it,” Sansa said. “Or someone who belongs in our pack.” She turned to look at him, eyes imperceptible. “Would you help me?” 

 

Tyrion pressed his lips together and nodded. “I would be honored, my lady.” 

 

And so Tyrion removed his gloves and returned Ned Stark to his tomb. 

 

“We’ll need to produce a lot of mortar to reseal all these tombs,” said Sansa. “The scouts have told me that tombs have been opened as far down as the collapsed levels.” 

 

“We shan’t seal up this one,” Tyrion said. She frowned at him. “When the war is over your father’s head will be laid in his tomb.” Tyrion barely noticed the slight wobble of her lip. 

 

“Joffrey made me look at it,” she told him. Tyrion sat back on his heels and sighed.  _ Of course he did.  _ “I almost killed him that day.” 

 

“What?” 

 

“Father’s head was dipped in tar to preserve it from rot, but I could still barely recognize it,” she said, almost absently. “He put my septa’s head on a spike too. She was a kind woman, always so proud of my stitches and my effortless courtesies.” She adjusted Ned’s cloak and rested her hand on his bony one. “Joffrey told me he was going to give me my brother’s head as well, and I told him that maybe Robb would give me his. On the battlements, there is a wallwalk without a parapet, and the ground is about seventy or eighty feet below. I was going to push him off, I didn’t care if I went with him or if Ser Meryn cut me down after it was done, I was so close to killing him.” Sansa looked up to the statue of her father before returning her gaze to Tyrion. “I hated Sandor Clegane a long time for stopping me. I was a weak little thing back then, but that day hardened me until my skin was no longer porcelain, but ivory. Whenever those heads haunted me, I would imagine Joffrey falling. I’d imagine his head cracking open and spilling onto the stone, I’d picture his limbs twisting and bending in all the wrong directions, and I’d see the life leaving his eyes… and I’d imagine his wormy little lips turning white.”

 

“Why are you telling me this?” Tyrion asked, bewildered by her admissions. This was probably the most Sansa had ever spoken to him. 

 

“Did they tell you what happened to my late husband?” She asked instead of answering. 

 

“He died in the Battle of the Bastards as I recall.” Tyrion didn’t like the sudden turn of their conversation.

 

“No, he didn’t,” said Sansa. “Jon was going to beat him to death but he left him for me. I could’ve had him executed, could’ve sentenced him to a clean death, and instead I had him put in the kennels and I released his own starved hounds on him. When I killed Ramsay Bolton, I enjoyed it,” she said. “I watched his dogs tear off his jaw, I watched them rip into him, I watched his brains spill out and his chest open up… and I enjoyed it. It brings a smile to my face to think about it. My father always said that a good man never enjoys killing.” Again, she looked up at his statue. “Does this make me a bad person, Tyrion? Do you think it’s dishonorable that I enjoyed the thought of killing Joffrey, that I enjoyed watching Ramsay and Littlefinger die?” 

 

“Sansa, these men,” Tyrion began, taking her hands in his, “were terrible,  _ evil _ people. They deserved what they got, and you deserve to enjoy that. There is nothing bad about that.” He then pursed his lips. “Why have you asked for my opinion on this?”

 

“Because I know you’re a good person.” He felt the lump in his throat bob up and down as he stifled a gasp. “You’re one of the most honorable people I know, and I trust your judgment.” 

 

From her, it was the highest praise she could possibly give him. 

 

“I’ve been called a lot of things, Sansa,” he said hoarsely, “and honorable is not one of them.” 

 

“Well it is now; I’ve just called you that,” said Sansa, the corner of her lips twitching. “I’ve known many dishonorable people over the years, and you are not among them.” 

 

Tyrion pulled his hands away, remembering the looks they shared hiding behind the very tomb they were knelt in front of. His heart ached in a way it hadn’t in a very long time, but overshadowing the ache was a deep, consuming fear. Fear of the way Sansa made him feel. 

 

“Thank you,” was all he could say. 

 

“You are welcome, my lord,” Sansa said with a smirk. She stood and went to the next body, him following close behind. “This must be my Uncle Brandon.” Tyrion looked at the corpse, wondering how she could come to that conclusion from just a pile of bones until he noticed that a few bones of the neck were broken. She wrapped up Brandon Stark’s bones in the cloak and carried it to a tomb with a stern man’s statue. Together they neatly tucked the bones in their rightful place. 

 

“I wish I’d known more about them – my father’s family,” she said. 

 

“Your father didn’t speak of them?” Tyrion asked. 

 

“It saddened him to talk about them,” she explained. “All I knew, I knew from other people.” 

 

They spent the rest of the day in the crypt, with Sansa identifying the corpses and Tyrion helping to put them back. Sansa looked at the last one and Tyrion could see the dread in her eyes, so he took her hand and squeezed it as they went to the body of Sansa’s direwolf. The wolf was naught but bones yet Sansa knelt down and took her in her arms regardless, rocking her back and forth. All Tyrion could do was put a hand on her back and watch as she kissed her wolf’s skull. 

 

“She was so sweet,” she said, and then she was sobbing. “She was so innocent, so  _ sweet _ , my little Lady. I loved her, I loved her so much and Joffrey took her from me. He took everything from me! I don’t care if it makes me a bad person, I enjoyed watch him choke to death. I wish it was a slower death, honor be damned.” She put her forehead against Lady’s and wept against her. “I wish I had killed him, I would’ve ripped him apart with my own godsdamned hands!” Tyrion rubbed circles into her back as he whispered soothing words. 

 

When she had cried all her tears, Tyrion helped her pick up Lady’s body and rest it inside her tomb. Then, she leaned down and laid a kiss on his forehead. 

 

“Thank you for helping me today,” Sansa said, and Tyrion knew she wasn’t thanking him for physically helping her. 

 

“Shall you give me a kiss every time I do something nice?” Tyrion asked with a small smile. 

 

“Perhaps,” she said. “Let’s get some fresh air, they’re probably serving supper by now.” 

 

They walked side by side and Tyrion was grateful when he noticed she was matching his pace with her much longer legs. 

 

“How is your sister handling her new fame?” He asked. 

 

“I don’t think she likes it overmuch,” Sansa said. “But she can’t hide from it with that mark on her neck. That Baratheon boy is good for her, I think.”

 

“Gendry Waters is a  _ Baratheon _ ?” He asked, incredulous. She gave him her little smirk that Tyrion was beginning to love. Tyrion pictured Gendry in his mind and felt like an idiot for not making the connection sooner. 

 

“Yes, he’s one of Robert’s bastards,” she said. “They’ve known each other since they were children. I suppose Robert got what he wanted in the end; a Baratheon boy with a Stark girl.”

 

“Perhaps there’s more than one wedding in our future.”

 

“Yes. He’s obviously deeply in love with her, but I don’t know about her. She’s so impossible to read,” Sansa was visibly perturbed by that. Then she looked down at him almost conspiratorially. “She told me that she has already taken him to bed.” Tyrion laughed. 

 

“Good for her,” he said. “She deserves some happiness.” 

 

“She does.”

 

“You do too, y’know. Deserve happiness, that is,” he said.  _ I could try to make you happy,  _ he thought, unbidden. 

 

“Not very much makes me happy anymore, Lord Tyrion,” said Sansa, and she didn’t even sound sad about it. 

 

“Margaery made you happy,” he said, almost to himself. 

 

“And now she’s but dust.” Sansa stopped ascending the steps and he took one more before stopping. “I was in love with her for a time.” Tyrion ceased to breathe. “Does that bother you?”

 

“Of course not,” he said right away. “I just- I just didn’t know.”

 

“You don’t know a lot of things about me,” said Sansa. 

 

“I would like to rectify that, if you would let me.”

 

Tyrion watched as Sansa clenched and unclenched her jaw as if chewing over his words, and he worried what it was she would eventually spit out at him. He wanted to know this woman, he wanted to learn everything about his wife… and there was something about her that made him want to tell her everything about himself. 

 

“I would.” Sansa resumed climbing the steps and he followed, relieved. “Margaery was my only friend in King’s Landing, my knight in shining armor, my lungful of air after drowning for so long. She remained my friend even after the Tyrell’s plan to marry me to Loras fell through. She took me hawking and riding, walked with me in the gardens, sang with me in the sept, had lemoncakes baked for me… she sometimes invited me into her bed where we would spend the night whispering about nothing. She saved me from being married to Joffrey, but more than that she gave me hope again.”

 

“You would’ve been a fool not to love her,” Tyrion said. He thought about the Great Sept of Baelor exploding in green flames, about Margaery and Loras Tyrell inside it.  _ Just another reason for Sansa to hate my sister.  _

 

“She comforted me when I worried about- about our wedding night,” said Sansa. “She reassured me and told me that you were quite experienced in bed, from what she’d heard.”

 

“She was right,” he said, almost sadly. “But my whoring days are over.”

 

“Shae was the last, wasn’t she?” Tyrion was the one to stop then, looking up at his clever wife. 

 

“Yes, she was.” They entered the courtyard and crowds were bustling with work, carrying the dead out of Winterfell. “When we were married, I never…”

 

“I know.” Sansa let out a deep breath as her head swivelled, surveying her castle. “I’ll see you later, Lord Tyrion.”

 

He watched her fiery red hair sway as she left, off to command her people. He could feel eyes on him and he looked around until his gaze fell on Arya Stark, staring straight at him as she approached. Tyrion wondered if he should fear for his life. 

 

“Hello, Lord Lannister,” said the little Stark. “You’re in love with her aren’t you?” 

 

“Um, hello,” he started, and yes, he realized, he  _ should  _ fear for his life. “What are you talking about?” 

 

“Don’t pretend to be stupid,” she said, holding her hands behind her back. “I know the way the minds of men work. Did they tell you how I got this?” Arya gestured to her neck. “I outwitted the Night King and I killed him. Before that, I outwitted Littlefinger and sliced his neck open. Before that, when I was just five and ten, I gouged out Meryn Trant’s eyes and slit his throat. The first time I killed someone I was barely one and ten. But my greatest accomplishment was slaughtering the Frey’s. Did you hear how they died?” 

 

“No?” Tyrion said, fighting the urge to back away. 

 

“I baked Walder Frey’s sons into a pie and made him eat it. Then I opened his throat and took his face from his head, and–”

 

“You what?” 

 

“–then I wore his face as I poisoned the men who slaughtered my mother and my brother. Killing you would be the easiest thing in the world.” Arya rested her hand on the pommel of her sword in warning. “My sister has gone through a lot, you see,” Arya said, voice almost a hiss. “She has more scars than I do, and I have a great deal. She has suffered at the hands of cruel men for many years. Don’t become one of them, and you can keep your head.” 

 

Quick as she had appeared, Arya Stark sauntered off. Tyrion was left to pity Gendry should he ever make the mistake of doing something she misliked. 

 

He was still a bit frightened when his brother came up to stand by his side. 

 

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Jaime remarked. 

 

“I think I might’ve,” said Tyrion. He looked up at him and once again observed his suckle marks on display. Jaime looked like he was glowing. “You look utterly debauched, dear brother. And proud of it.” 

 

“I am,” Jaime chuckled. 

 

“Tell me about it,” Tyrion said with a curious grin. 

 

“It was… it was the most incredible thing I’ve ever felt. I’ve never been with a woman like her before, she’s…”  _ Nothing like Cersei,  _ Tyrion heard him think. 

 

“I demand  _ details _ , big brother!” Tyrion said. “What’s Ser Brienne of Tarth like in bed?”

 

“That’s none of your business,” Jaime said through a grin. 

 

“I haven’t been with a woman in years, just give me one little morsel,” he pleaded. 

 

“You’re a dog, d’you know that?”

 

“I am the  _ Imp _ , and I  _ demand  _ to know!” Jaime glared at him before sighing and looking up at the castle. 

 

“She’s bloody fantastic in bed. I find it hard to believe she was a maiden.”

 

“Tormund will be jealous,” said Tyrion. “You saw the way he was with her, he so very badly wants to fuck her.” 

 

“He’s going to be disappointed. I’m hers and she’s mine and I’m the only person she’s ever going to fuck.” To say his wording intrigued him would be an understatement. Tyrion squinted at him and barked out a laugh. 

 

“ _ Ser Jaime Lannister _ , you didn’t do the fucking last night, did you?” 

 

“She rode me like a horse so hard the bed broke,” he said reverently. Tyrion laughed the hardest he’d laughed in a very, very long time. “My chambers are a mess, it looks like an auroch had a rampage in there.” 

 

“You must be exhausted,” he said, still laughing. 

 

“Not at all, actually,” said Jaime. “She lifted me up like I was  _ nothing _ , I felt like a damned maiden.” 

 

“Oh, yes, Tormund will be  _ very _ jealous. Heartbroken, even. That man would be happy if Brienne stepped on him, and you seem the same way.” 

 

“She did a lot better than stepping on me last night. When you and Sansa work yourselves out you must ask her to ride your face, it’s amazing.” 

 

“Why does everyone think I want to fuck Sansa Stark?” 

 

“I don’t think that, I think you want to make love to her.” Tyrion sighed. “And I think she wants you to. Go ask the weird little Stark boy.” Jaime gestured to something behind himself and Tyrion followed the gesture to see Bran Stark staring at them. 

 

“What is it with the Stark’s and their staring?” Tyrion shook his head at Jaime. “I’m not going to ask the boy if his sister wants me in her bed.” 

 

“Then ask her yourself.”

 

Tyrion sighed as his brother left him, pinching the bridge of his nose. It seemed ignoring his feelings for Sansa Stark was not going to work. 

 

_ Arya spoke for true, I  _ am  _ in love with her,  _ he admitted to himself. Once he’d admitted it, a weight lifted from his shoulders and he marched right up to the still-staring Bran Stark. 

 

“Would you help me with something?” He asked. 

 

A slow smile spread across the boy’s face and it unnerved Tyrion. “I’ve been waiting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gendrya next chapter! I wasn't going to include them in the main story but D&D fucked them up and I gotta fix it.


	4. A New House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya makes several realizations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long, it’s because the chapter is as long as the previous chapters combined. And sorry it’s so long, I didn’t want to split it up and I wanted it all to be Arya’s POV so here’s a 12k word chapter! ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ I could write in Arya’s head for weeks. I don’t agree with her characterization in a lot of fic on here so sorry if this is off-putting for some of you. I take a lot of her character from the books and not the show so if you don’t know where I got an idea from, it’s probably the books. 
> 
> And for those of you wondering, I’m not going to make Dany mad in this story. And Jonerys is canon in this, so sorry for those who are grossed out at that pairing. (tbh I was too at first but then it grew on me) But it’s just going to be a background pairing unless I get requests to do a chapter for them.

* * *

**Arya**

 

The only skill that Arya had mastered to a greater degree than swordplay was the art of deception. The training she endured under the Faceless Men planted the seeds of deception so deep in her mind that lies and manipulation came as easily as breathing to her. But as she had learned to lie herself, she had also learned to spot a lie from another.

 

She would use the latter skill in her plan to evaluate the Dragon Queen and her prospects as a ruler. She didn’t want to kill the woman – she’d saved all their lives and had been there when she was needed the most – but Arya would not take any chances.

 

The queen’s smile was warm but her eyes were sad as she ushered Arya into her chambers. “Would you care for some water? Tea?” Asked the queen.

 

“Water is fine,” said Arya, taking the offered goblet. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

 

“Oh, Daenerys or Dany is fine. Your brother warned me not to call you ‘my lady’, Arya, so it’s only fair that you not call me by my titles.” Some of the sadness in her eyes was replaced with amusement. “I meant to speak with you yesterday – to thank you for what you did. If it weren’t for you, my child would’ve died for nothing and I wouldn’t have lost only Ser Jorah and my bloodriders. I know you only did it to save those you care for, and you did not do it for me or my people, but I am still in your debt, Arya Stark.”

 

Arya opened her mouth to tell her that she paid the debt already with the support of her dragons and armies, but decided to use this ‘debt’ to her advantage.

 

“There is a way you can pay that debt… Dany,” Arya said, testing the name on her lips.

 

“Name it,” said the queen.

 

“I have questions about you, about your rule. Answer them and consider the debt paid.”

 

Westeros was running low on competent rulers. Aerys and Joffrey were cruel, Robert was better at drinking and whoring than ruling, Renly was loved by the people yet hadn’t the mettle for war, Stannis was a good military commander but lacked kindness, Tommen was too kind and not aggressive enough, Cersei was too aggressive and cared not for anyone, and Jon… well, Jon didn’t listen to any advice.

 

Robb had been the best ruler out of all of them. He was loved by his people and feared by his enemies, he was a great military general that could hold his own against Tywin Lannister, he was kind with just enough aggressiveness, he cared for the small folk, he was honorable but he learned from Father’s mistakes, and he listened to Mother. He would’ve made a great king.

 

But Robb was dead and there was no point in mourning his would-be rule. Daenerys Targaryen was alive – with a good claim to the throne – and all outward appearances showed a good ruler. All Arya had to do was find out whether or not said appearances were for true.

 

“Answering a few questions hardly seems an equal trade,” said Queen Daenerys, “but nevertheless I shall answer them.”

 

Arya’s first question was quite dour for the hour of dawn. “What sparked your hatred for slavery?” Her hatred was not misplaced but Arya wondered if her being the Breaker of Chains was merely a political move. One of the only times Arya ever saw Father angry was when he was teaching them about slavery, telling them of the horrors slaves faced across the Narrow Sea, and why it should never be tolerated in Westeros.

 

“When I was but six and ten, my brother sold me to a Dothraki Khal. We grew to love each other and he learned to respect me, but I was his slave in the beginning. I was alone for a long time… alone but for my brother. I was weak and helpless, and Viserys should have protected me but instead he hurt me. He had been my king.” Daenerys paused when her voice began to rise. “Without his protection I had to protect myself, rely on _myself._ Why do the gods make kings and queens do you think, if not to protect the ones who can’t protect themselves?”  _There’s only one god,_ Arya thought.  _And He cares not for kings or queens._ “After my brother died and left me his crown, I decided to be a better queen than he was a king.”

 

“So that is why you liberated Slaver’s Bay?” Arya asked. “Because you had been a slave to your husband and your brother didn’t protect you?” They were perfectly good reasons but Arya wanted to be sure.

 

“No. Those contributed to my want of liberation, but they’re not the only reasons. It wasn’t until I witnessed the terrors of Slaver’s Bay that I realized what I was meant to do. In Astapor, the masters crucified their rebellious slaves and lined them up on wooden platforms along what they called the Walk of Punishment. Missandei told me that the _Good_ Masters placed them on display so slaves could look upon those who disobeyed. They had been peeled like a man might peel an apple.” Daenerys’ voice was rising again, and Arya could see the anger in her eyes burning hot like wildfire. “One man had an arm black with flies from fingers to elbow, flayed so deeply that you could see the red muscle and the white of bone beneath. That was the punishment for raising one’s hand against their owner. I offered water to one of them and he asked me to just let him die.” Her eyes were glazed over as if picturing the man she spoke of, but she focused on Arya after a moment and sipped her water. ”A good queen protects those who cannot protect themselves, so I killed the _Good_ Masters and freed the slaves of Astapor. Then I went on to liberate Yunkai and Meereen.”

 

Arya was happy to find no trace of deception in her eyes. _Good,_ she thought. _Please pass the test._

 

“Why did you buy the Unsullied?”

 

“I needed an army. Ser Barristan disapproved because he was of the opinion that an army needs to love their leader – to be ready to die for them. Ser Jorah placed importance on the castration of the Unsullied, for men like them would do only as I commanded and would not rape or harm innocents in the heat of battle. I agreed with both of them.” Dany’s lips curled in a devious smirk. “So I bought all eight thousand of the Unsullied and gave them only one command before I freed them; kill the masters and anyone with a whip. None of them left when I gave them freedom to. I won an army that would not harm innocents, while winning both their loyalty and their love at the same time.”

 

Arya felt her lips spread into a wide grin. She had wondered why the slave soldiers – especially the one named Grey Worm – loved their queen so. She had not known this story. Arya wanted nothing more at that moment than to hit Jon over the head with a stick for his stupidity. He expected the Northerner’s loyalty– his _family’s_ loyalty to his Dragon Queen, without giving a reason why other than her power. He had not given the North a reason to love her as they loved Father and Robb. But Dany just gave Arya a very big reason to love her.

Arya‘s third question was spoken through a smile. “Who taught you to rule?”

 

“Nobody, actually,” said Daenerys. “I was meant to be just my brother’s wife, not to rule. My mother died when I was very young – before she could teach me anything, and neither Viserys nor Khal Drogo were the ideal teacher. So I learned on my own. I’m still learning, actually. I took advice from Ser Jorah, Missandei, Lord Tyrion, and Ser Barristan… basically anyone I trusted. But the main thing that guided me was my sense of justice and what I perceived as right.”

 

“Do you think that’s the most important part of ruling? Justice?” Arya asked, but she didn’t wait for her to answer. “I was Tywin Lannister’s cupbearer for a time.” Arya watched Daenerys lift a curious eyebrow. “He enjoyed me. I was a highborn girl that looked like a boy, with short hair and breeches. He said I reminded him of his daughter.” Arya shook her head with amusement when she remembered how angry she’d been at that. “He would play games with me.”

 

_“Lousy, foolish little whelp,” Tywin hissed as he threw the letter Arya had just delivered into the fire._

 

_“My lord?” She could not stop her voice from coming out a squeak. Tywin looked from the fire to her and waved dismissively._

 

_“No, not you, girl,” he said, “my idiot grandson. Pour two goblets of wine, would you?”_

 

_“Are you expecting someone?” Arya asked as she poured the wine._

 

_“The second is for you,” said Lord Tywin. Arya blinked a few times before bringing a goblet to where he was seated in front of the fire. Tywin nodded to the other chair. “Go on, sit.” Arya squinted at him, searching for a trick. He resumed talking as soon as Arya sat. “Never should’ve left my daughter to her devices in the damned capital. I apparently misjudged her competency.”_

 

_“I thought it was your grandson giving you trouble,” Arya said, trying to calm herself under his scrutiny._

 

_“It is. But I can’t blame the boy entirely for his… recklessness,” said Tywin. Arya watched him drink generously from his cup. “This is what happens when one isn’t given the proper discipline as a child.”_

 

And your daughter? _She wanted to ask._ Do you blame _her_ entirely for her recklessness?

 

_“Did you discipline your children?” She asked instead. Tywin let out a sort of amused sound._

 

_“My sister says I disciplined them too much.” He looked at her curiously. “I suspect your parents didn’t discipline you enough.”_

 

_“Maybe. My mother locked me in my chambers for a week when she caught me with a sword,” she said with a hint of a smile._

 

_“And you went and picked it back up anyway,” he supplied. Arya nodded._

 

_“If only my children went against me in so little a way. My youngest spends his time drinking and whoring, my other son would rather swing a sword for the rest of his days than marry and rule as he was born to, and my daughter loves nothing more than to rebel against me.” Tywin huffed. “I mistakenly thought she would use my lessons to raise her sons to be kings, and instead Joffrey hasn’t any brains and what little he does have he puts to cruelty.” Tywin turned his gaze to Arya and some of the anger left his eyes. “Tell me, what quality makes a good king?”_

 

_“Pardon, my lord?” She asked, running her finger along the ridges of the goblet._

 

_“You heard. I’ve asked my children this before and I want to know what you think.” He was testing her, but Arya did not know what for._

 

_“A king must have many good qualities to be truly good,” Arya said tentatively._

 

_“True,” said Tywin. “But which is the most important?”_

 

_Arya thought for a moment. “Honor?”_

 

_“Mmm. King Daeron II was honorable. He was loved by his subjects for his honorable rule and his generosity, yet his inability to deal with the Great Bastards brought war to the realm. Was that honorable?” Arya shook her head and really thought before trying again. She remembered the history of King Jaehaerys and his wife Good Queen Alysanne, and tried to pinpoint what made them good rulers._

 

 _“Wisdom?” Arya had to blink a few times to be sure of what she was seeing; Lord Tywin was_ smiling _at her._

 

 _“Yes,” said the Old Lion, and Arya was surprised to see shiny white teeth._ Why keep them so clean if you never show them? _She thought. “Mine own children could not answer that correctly in under five tries. Perhaps I would’ve been better off with you as a daughter.”_

 

Arya shook the memory out of her head and drank from her goblet of water. “Which quality do you think is most important in a good ruler? Holiness, justice, honor, wisdom, kindness, or strength?” Dany drained the rest of her water while Arya waited for an answer.

 

“Wisdom,” she said. “A wise ruler knows when to be just, when to be kind or strong, when to show piousness, when to be honorable and when not to be.”

 

Arya had only one more question until she could be sure Dany passed the test. “Do you plan to take my brother Jon as your consort?” Arya forced herself not to laugh when the queen’s eyes widened.

 

“He told you?”

 

“No,” Arya said. “But he’s lousy at hiding things. So? Will he be your king?”

 

“I– I, uhh,” Daenerys fumbled. “Well he’s a bit short to be honest.” Arya did laugh then, and Dany followed suit. “But yes, I will take Jon Snow as my husband if he will have me. I have half a mind to take Yara Greyjoy as my consort, but I doubt Jon would appreciate having two wives.”

 

 _You’re like my sister,_ thought Arya with a grin. Arya wished Margaery still drew breath; she never got to meet the woman her sister loved. At least she got to meet the woman her brother loved.

 

“Do you love him?”

 

“Yes,” Dany said immediately. “More than I’ve loved anyone.”

 

“Good.” Arya was very pleased with Dany’s prospects as Queen, and as Jon’s wife. Arya did not trust in Jon’s judgement but she trusted her own, and she very much liked Dany. “I’d like to share with you my plans for the capital. I think I can make it so that when you march on King’s Landing, you will find open gates.”

 

A couple hours later, she and Dany walked arm in arm through the courtyard and outside the castle gates to join the group gathered to see the queen, Jon, and Rickon off.

 

“One more thing, Arya,” said Dany, pulling them to a stop. The queen fixed the collar on her shirt with a little smile. “I would name you to my Queensguard should you want it.” Arya couldn’t stop her eyes from widening. “I wouldn’t blame you for wanting to settle down after this is all over, but you shall always have a place with me.”

 

A Queensguard.

 

A knighthood had always been Bran’s dream, never Arya’s. She had wanted to know how to defend herself and bring justice to the world, yes, but never had she wanted to be a knight. When she was younger, all she ever wanted was to be like Father. She wanted to be lord of a castle or a holdfast, or be a member of the king’s council, or maybe even raise castles like Brandon the Builder.

 

But perhaps she could do good in the capital. That was what she wanted, wasn’t it? To bring justice to the smallfolk as she wasn’t able to do in Harrenhal, to protect those who cannot protect themselves.

 

“I’ll think about it,” Arya said finally. “Thank you, Dany, for being honest with me today.”

 

“My door is always open to you, Arya,” said Dany, leaning down to peck her on the cheek. “I think we’re going to be good friends.”

 

Drogon and Rhaegal were crouched patiently in front of the farewell party, the deep rumbling of their hums resonating in Arya’s chest. She’d admired the great beasts from afar but never had she been this close to them before. Drogon turned their enormous head to meet her stare and made a sort of chuffing noise. She couldn’t stop herself from smiling in awe as she gazed directly into their almost cat-like eyes. The dragons were somehow both similar and not at all like how she imagined.

 

She took a careful step toward Drogon, slowly raising her hand. “I always wanted to be a dragon,” she whispered to Drogon, and their big eyes blinked slowly at her. “It must be wonderful to fly away whenever you wish, and to keep growing for the rest of your life. Being small does have its advantages, though.”

 

She stopped once Drogon was close enough to smell her hand. A strange sense of familiarity passed between them, almost as if… as if they’d met before. Through her bond with Nymeria, she could always sense where Ghost or Shaggydog or Summer were; she wondered if through Drogon’s bond with Jon, she and the dragon were already connected.

 

She moved forward to rest her hand on Drogon’s snout and stretched her palm over the scales between his nostrils. “Oh, you’re so warm!” She giggled, stroking the scales as you would a cat. “You must steam during the winter.”

 

She noticed that the farewells were stopped and the air was deathly quiet. Jon and Sansa were looking at her like she’d grown three heads while the queen was positively _beaming_ at her. A very large head nudged her once her hand had stilled and the force of it sent her to the ground. It was Dany who helped her up, scolding the dragon in Valyrian as she did.

 

“Sorry about that,” Daenerys said. “Drogon doesn’t quite know how to be gentle, I’m afraid. It’s a lot easier to keep steady when you’re being nudged by a dragon the size of a cat than the size of a castle.”

 

“I don’t mind,” said Arya, smiling at the queen. “Ghost does that a lot when he’s feeling pouty.”

 

“Oh, tell me about it,” Daenerys said, throwing a glance back at Jon. “I have to pet that whining wolf every single time Jon is in a broody mood, which is _all_ the time.” Arya chuckled involuntarily at that.

 

Rickon departed the crowd and surged forward to hug Arya, picking her up off the ground like Father used to. She was still trying to get used to the fact that her little brother was a head taller than her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and nuzzled the side of his head, letting herself be held tightly.

 

“Gods, you’re so _tall_ ,” she said into his curls. “You’ll be taller than Jon soon.”

 

“That’ll be weird,” said Rickon, setting her back down. “You guys are all so tall in my memories.”

 

“Try to stop growing, please,” she said, smiling at Rickon’s laugh. “If you keep growing I won’t be able to do this anymore.” Arya reached up and ruffled his unruly red curls.

 

“Robb did that a lot,” Rickon reminisced, and it made Arya happier than it made her sad. “I’ll just have to kneel down for you.” Arya and Rickon shared a laugh at that, and she gave him one final embrace.

 

“If you fall off Rhaegal I’ll kill you,” Arya warned. “Have fun, little brother.”

 

Next she was approached by her big brother, who embraced her even more tightly than Rickon had. “Are you secretly a Targaryen?” He asked her, gesturing to Drogon. “It took me weeks to grow brave enough to touch the big beast.”

 

“Well, Drogon could probably feel how much I adored dragons and their riders,” said Arya.

 

“And he could probably feel my fear of them,” he said. She giggled. “Look after Bran and Sansa while I’m gone,” he said, tucking a stray hair behind her ear.

 

“I always do,” said Arya.

 

They all had to step back as Daenerys took off on Drogon and Jon took off on Rhaegal with Rickon. Arya had always wanted to see Bear Island with its warrior women, but she had to stay in Winterfell to protect Sansa and Bran.

 

~~~~~

 

Arya twirled Needle in her hand, sending Pod the grimace she’d worn before the past three right thrusts. She thrust left as Pod blocked his right, and she easily disarmed him. He looked utterly defeated.

 

“You lied,” Pod complained as his shoulders slumped.

 

“Did I?”

 

“Your face said right but you went left,” said Podrick.

 

“My face told a lie but my eyes told the truth,” she said, picking up his blunt sword. “Don’t pay attention to anything but the eyes.”

 

“Do we have to do this today? The battle was only two days ago,” he said once she threw his sword at him.

 

“The enemy won’t care if your last battle was two seconds ago,” said Arya. “You said you wanted to fight like me, this is how you will learn.” She could see the weariness weighing down on him and she sighed. “Fine. Tomorrow you will bring a blindfold to training.”

 

Podrick was a good swordsman, but he lacked the physical strength to be as efficient as Brienne at her style. He had come to her, all tongue tied and embarrassed, and asked her to teach him her style. He had said that Brienne was too occupied with Ser Jaime to continue training him. It was then that Arya smiled and asked if he’d heard of water dancing.

 

“A– a blindfold?”

 

“Yes, a blindfold. Now go get some rest before I change my mind and starting hitting you.”

 

Podrick’s wide smile spread across his face as he scurried away. He was a kind boy in a man’s body, and someday it would probably get him killed. Gendry’s heavy footsteps behind her banished her sour thoughts and she smiled.

 

“Hello Gendry,” she said, shaking her head as the footsteps stopped abruptly.

 

“How’d you know it was me?” She spun around and held her hands behind her back.

 

 _Hearing and touching was all I had when I was blind,_ she thought. “Ears are just as useful to see as eyes are,” she said instead.

 

“Right,” said Gendry with a hesitant pause. “Can we talk?” Arya ignored her stomach as it dropped to her feet.

 

Gendry led her to his small chamber in the smithy, where he had led her after the battle to make love with blood still drying on their skin. They had stunk of grime and blood and sweat but it was better than the first time, as both of them were relieved that the other had survived.

 

She felt the heat from the nearby forge seep into her skin and relieve her aches, and she hummed in appreciation. But then the tension reentered her body when she noticed the tremors in his hands as he closed the door.

 

“What’s wrong?” She asked. His face was flushed and his eyes were blown wide, and Arya could feel the nervousness radiating off of him.

 

“Nothing’s wrong, not yet anyway.” He laughed but it was more nervous than happy. “I– I just don’t know how I should say this.”

 

Arya leaned up and kissed him, feeling some of the tension leave his body. “Talk to me.”

 

“I’m not Gendry Waters anymore,” he began, which only confused her further. “This morning at the farewell party Queen Daenerys named me Gendry Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End.”

 

Arya broke into a grin as her confusion melted into happiness for her best friend and lover. “Congratulations.” Gendry surged forward and captured her lips in a sloppy but passionate kiss.

 

“I don’t know how to be a lord of anything, the only thing I’m good at is smithing and running and fighting. All I know is you’re beautiful and strong and amazing and I love you and none of it is worth anything if you’re not with me,” he said in one breath. Arya gasped lightly and looked back and forth between his eyes rapidly, hardly believing his words. His eyes spoke no lie. “So be with me. Be my wife, be the Lady of Storm’s End.”

 

When Arya was younger, she had wanted to look pretty in a dress, wanted Sansa’s Tully hair, her feminine beauty, her singing voice, her skill at sewing... but most of all she had just wanted to make Mother proud of her. But she couldn’t do any of it. Arya inherited Father’s looks, she couldn’t sing worth a damn, and the only thing her fingers were deft at was holding a bow or a sword. So instead of wanting to be a lady, she decided to hate it, to hate sewing and singing and dresses. After all, it was easier to hate something than love it and fail at it.

 

“I’m not good at being a lady, Gendry,” she said. He barely even blinked at that. “I can’t sew or wear dresses, that’s not who I am.”

 

“Who says you need to do those things to be a lady?” Gendry said through a grin. Arya’s world was turned upside down. “Just because you’re not like other ladies doesn’t mean you can’t be one.” When Arya opened and closed her mouth like a fish, he continued. “You remember in Harrenhal, when you told me about that warrior queen? Well, Princess Nymeria wasn’t like other ladies was she? You said she commanded armies and led them on the battlefield! Why can’t you be like her? Why can’t you be my wife and mother children and be a warrior at the same time?” Two surprised huffs of laughter escaped her lips and she stared up at him.

 

“Gendry, I don’t want to be the lady of a castle, I want to be the lord,” she said, remembering that conversation she had with Father all those years ago.

 

“That’s what I’m asking,” Gendry said quickly, putting his hands on both her arms as if scared she’d run away. Arya blinked. “I just became a lord today, Arry, I don’t know what I’d do. Fuck it, I’ll be your lady.”

 

Arya laughed but she also wanted to cry at what he was offering. This was her dream; the dream Father couldn’t give her yet was being given freely by Gendry. Arya was taught that being a lady meant you couldn’t be a fighter or ruler of a castle – she never thought that someday, one wouldn’t have to make the other impossible.

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Of course I’m sure! Please, Arya, I love you. I want to be your husband and father to your children and I want to forge you something new every day. Marry me, Arya.”

 

“And what if I don’t want to rule a castle?” She asked, a test.

 

“Then Queen Daenerys can find someone else to be Lord of Storm’s End. We could travel the world together; you’ll be the fighter and I’ll be your smith. I don’t care what we do, as long as it’s together.”

 

It was then that she realized she truly was in love with Gendry. He was ready to give up his lordship, his castle, and even his name, just for her. For Arya, not Lady Arya Stark.

 

She knew that part of her had always loved him, since she was barely ten and two and he was the only one she trusted. Together they had survived the Kingsroad, Harrenhal, and the Brotherhood Without Banners. He had been her only friend when she was at her lowest. But that was when they were children, and Gendry didn’t know the woman she’d become.

 

“Gendry… you don’t know things about me, things that I can do – things that I’ve _done_ ,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

 

“Does it matter?” Gendry was still shaking and she stepped away, furrowing her brow at his clear devastation.

 

“It matters, Gendry,” said Arya. She took a deep breath before saying her next words. “If I’m to marry you…” she began, and he perked up as a grin spread across his face, “then you need to know what I am.”

 

“You’re not a ‘what’, Arry, you’re the most fantastic person I know.” Gendry got to his knees and she followed suit so they were eye level.

 

“I’m not a good person, Gendry,” she said quietly.

 

“Of course you are! Hey.” He cupped her face so she wouldn’t look away. “You _are_ a good person – I know it, I’ve seen it.”

 

“We were children, Gendry!” Arya was breathless from breathing so hard. She didn’t want him to know what kind of person she was. She wanted him to keep looking at her as he was now; like she was the most beautiful woman in Westeros, like she commanded the sun and moon to rise and fall, like she had painted the stars into the sky. Nobody had ever looked at her like that, and Arya never wanted him to stop. But he needed to know if she was ever to see that look without feeling guilty. “Do you… do you remember Jaqen H’ghar?”

 

“The assassin at Harrenhal?” She nodded.

 

“After the Red Woman took you and the Hound took me, I was tired of being helpless– I was tired of relying on other people for protection. I wanted to be a protector and to bring justice for my family, and I wanted to stop just standing by while innocents were hurt.” Arya closed her eyes. “I still remember their screams, Gendry. The ones they tortured in Harrenhal, the women they raped. I remember just watching as the Mountain beheaded that girl who resisted him.” Arya opened her eyes when Gendry cupped her face with his hand. “I remember the screams of the girl who shared a soldier’s bed three nights running and was still tortured. I remember the screams of that smiley old man that was tortured, the one who mended the soldiers’ clothing and babbled about his son on the City Watch.

 

“I can still hear the screams of mothers watching their children die, of the children crying for their mothers, of women and men and boys and girls… and I can still remember just _watching_ and listening as it all happened.” Arya shut her eyes tight as she began to cry, unable to look at Gendry anymore. “So I had Jaqen murder the Tickler and Ser Armory and I killed Polliver myself. But then… then Walder Frey killed my mother and brother. I was there when it happened. Do you know what they did to my big brother?” Her cries turned to sobs as she failed to suppress the memory as she had been for years. “They murdered his wife and child right in front of him and they filled him with arrows and then they… they took his head and replaced it with his direwolf’s, and they– they paraded his b-body around the Twins – my big brother!” Gendry took her in his arms as she sobbed, unable to stop the grief from flooding her.

 

She hadn’t meant for this to happen; all she was trying to do was make him understand why she went on to do the things she did, but the memories brought with them a need to finally mourn.

 

“I pulled my mo-mother from the river they dumped her in.” Arya breathed in the smell of his tunic to calm herself. “By the time I found her she was a white, wrinkled thing with cold blood trickling from her throat. I can still smell her decayed body.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “So I went to Braavos, to find Jaqen. And when I did– when I found him, he trained me to be a Faceless Man.” Arya pulled away and wiped her face. “I was taught how to lie, how to move like a shadow and how to kill… I was taught how to carve a face from a head and wear it like my own.”

 

Gendry looked surprised but not disgusted, and it gave her hope. “Is that why you think you’re not a good person? Because you’re like Jaqen?”

 

“No,” Arya said as she looked away. “After I returned to Westeros, I went to the Twins. I killed Walder Frey’s sons and baked them into a pie that I made him eat. After I killed him, I took his face and I poisoned every man in House Frey as they poisoned my brother’s men.” Arya looked back at Gendry to see only confusion.

 

“Arya, they deserved what they got and that doesn’t make you a bad person,” said Gendry, so genuinely that it made her heart hurt.

 

“That’s not it, Gendry. I know they deserved it and killing them wasn’t wrong. It’s– it’s…”

 

“What?”

 

“I enjoy it! I like to kill!” She shouted, clenching her fists to keep from hitting something. “Killing Polliver felt good, killing Rorge and Meryn Trant and Littlefinger felt _good._ Killing every man of House Frey felt better than returning home.” She pulled away and stood, turning away from him. “For the longest time I thought Sandor a monster for enjoying killing. You don’t want to be married to a monster, do you?”

 

There was only a moment’s pause but it nearly drove her to more tears.

 

“If you’re a monster, I guess they’re not so bad,” came Gendry’s voice. She turned back around and stared straight into those earnest eyes of his. “I’m in love with you, Arya, nothing will ever change that.”

 

And he was still looking at her as he was before, like he still thought the world of her– like he still loved her.

 

“You still haven’t answered my question,” he said as a tear dripped from her jaw.

 

Arya launched at him and gasped, “yes!” as he caught her and stumbled backward, wrapping his arms around her back as she wrapped her own around his neck. He breathed a sigh of relief into her ear and it raised gooseflesh on her arms.

 

Tears were still rolling down her face as she kissed him. It was passionate and full of relief and longing and love and Arya never wanted to stop.

 

 _He’s mine,_ she thought. _He’s mine and I’m his and we’re going to be so happy together._

 

Arya remembered thinking up names for pregnant women’s babies in Winterfell, and she remembered holding them and making faces until they giggled. She so loved babies, and now having one of her own didn’t seem so terrifying– not when it would be Gendry’s.

 

Eddard would be their first boy, then maybe Davos or Robb or Jon. She quite liked the idea of naming their first girl Lyanna for her father. Sansa was a good name too, or maybe Margaery for her sister. Perhaps they could have a child for each name.

 

They had to pull away because Arya couldn’t stop smiling, and she giggled with excitement. _I’m to be married,_ she realized. _To Gendry!_ She jumped off of him and then grasped his hand, leading him out of the chamber and into the courtyard.

 

“Where’re we going?”

 

“To get married,” she said, smirking up at his visibly shocked face.

 

“What, like right now?”

 

“Yes,” said Arya. “We only need two people. You go find someone and bring them to the Godswood, I’ll meet you there.” Gendry, to her amusement, took off at a run.

 

She found Sandor perched on a tree stump gnawing at a chicken leg. Arya snuck up in front of him and he jumped when he looked up.

 

“Seven Hells, girl,” he bit out. “Don’t fucking do that.”

 

“Get up.”

 

“What?” He grunted.

 

“Get up,” she repeated. “I’m getting married.”

 

“That blacksmith put a baby in you already?” Arya snatched the chicken leg right out of his hands and she threw it toward the stables. “Hey!”

 

“Get up.”

 

“You just ruined my bloody meal and now you want me to go to your wedding?!” Sandor spat.

 

“I haven’t got a father anymore – the Lannister’s made sure of that – so you’re gonna give me away,” said Arya. She took a moment to enjoy his wide-eyed open-mouthed expression and then yanked him to his feet. This time Sandor didn’t protest and instead followed her to the Godswood.

 

Arya had loved her father more than anything in the world, but she had to accept that he wasn’t here anymore, and thus she had to make do with Sandor. He was a shithead most of the time and gruff when he wasn’t being a shithead, but he was what she had.

 

Sandor was honest where Father would’ve told a kind lie, he was sharp where Father was gentle, he taught her killing and surviving while Father taught her patience and kindness, and most important of all: he was alive while Father was not.

 

She giggled as they passed through the gates and saw Gendry standing by the weirwood with Davos and Tormund. The day was barely passed early morning, Gendry was wearing his regular clothes, their witnesses were a wildling and the Onion Knight, there would be no feast or dancing, but it was utterly _hers_. A beautiful wedding with gowns and leather doublets and wedding pies and dances… it just wouldn’t have felt right. Arya grew to love Gendry on the run from one group of captors to another, surviving on food scraps and pissing in the bushes with worn out clothes – she didn’t need her wedding to him to be pretty. And she wanted to marry him as soon as possible.

 

“Who comes before the– uh, before the god?” Gendry asked once she and Sandor reached him, barely able to talk through his smile. Arya pointedly looked up at Sandor.

 

“Arya of House Stark, that’s who.” Arya elbowed him to continue but he just shrugged.

 

“You’re supposed to ask who comes to claim ‘er,” Ser Davos filled in.

 

“ _Claim_ her?” Sandor barked. “She’s not a fucking goat.”

 

“Up north we kidnap our brides,” Tormund added. “Claim seems the right word.”

 

“We’re not wildlings, ya dumb cu–”

 

“Who comes to wed me?” Arya said to stop them.

 

“Gendry of House Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End,” said Gendry, still smiling. “Who brings her?”

 

“The fucking Hound, lord of nothing.” Sandor sighed and looked down at her. “Arya, will you take this man?”

 

“I take this man,” she said, her smile audible.

 

Arya joined hands with Gendry and knelt before the heart tree, pulling him down with her. She bowed her head to show submission to the Old Gods and he mirrored her. She didn’t believe in the Old Gods but they were the gods of her father and his father before him, and she would respect that.

 

When they rose, Arya watched as Gendry took the cloak that would serve as a bride cloak from Tormund’s arm and instead of placing it on her shoulders, he held it out for her to take.

 

“What are you doing?” She asked, looking at the cloak warily as if it had burst into flames.

 

“Gendry Stark sounds better than Arya Baratheon,” said Gendry with a nonchalant lilt to his voice, as if what he said didn’t matter at all.

 

“You’re the last Baratheon, you can’t let your House go extinct!” She said, shocked by his offered sacrifice.

 

The Baratheons were all dead if Jon was to be believed, and as much as she had despised Robert, Father had loved him. She couldn’t let the Baratheon name die out. Unless Robert had another bastard hiding somewhere, Gendry was the last of his House. Besides, Bran and Rickon would carry on the Stark name.

 

There was movement in the corner of her eye as Davos unclasped his own cloak and handed it to Arya. “I think it’s ‘bout time for a new House. The joining of names is how House Karstark was founded, after all, and you wouldn’t be the first Baratheon cadet branch.”

 

Arya turned back to Gendry and his grin brought one to her own face. “I think we both intend to change some things about House Baratheon and how my father went about his household. And I think a new House is warranted for such changes.”

 

And so Arya and Gendry cloaked each other, and while there was no feast for Gendry to carry her to, Arya supposed the marriage bed would suffice.

 

“So what do you think?” She asked Gendry in the morning, her front pressed against his back and her face buried in his neck.

 

“About what?” Said Gendry, his voice deep from sleep.

 

“Our House,” she began. “What shall we name it?”

 

“Hmmm,” hummed Gendry, turning around in her arms to face her. “Staratheon? Barathark?” Arya wrinkled her nose and shook her head with a giggle.

 

“What about House Stark-Baratheon?”

 

“Too long,” said Gendry, leaning forward to give her a chaste kiss. “House Aryatheon?”

 

“That has a nice ring to it.” She laughed. “How about… House Gendratheon?”

 

“Sounds like a name for a dragon,” he said, and Arya could feel his laughter rumbling in his chest. “Can we have our own words too?”

 

“I don’t see why not,” said Arya. “We could make up our own or maybe join our words. I like _ours is the winter_.”

 

Gendry hummed and then laughed. “ _Our fury is coming._ ” Arya laughed into Gendry’s neck. “We’ll ask Davos about it.”

 

“Oh shit,” she cursed, closing her eyes.

 

“What?”

 

“I’m supposed to be training Pod right now.” She forced herself to detach from her husband – her _husband!_ – and get dressed.

 

“You’re training Ser Podrick?” Asked Gendry. Arya very nearly crawled back into bed when she saw him propped up on his elbow with the furs at his waist, showing his muscled chest.

 

“Ser Brienne’s too busy with her new boyfriend,” she explained.

 

“And you’re not?” Gendry was pouting and she huffed.

 

Arya kissed his pout away. “I love you,” she said, and somehow it meant more than all the times she’d said it as they made love the previous night. She padded his crotch through the furs and laughed when he jerked. “I’ll see you later.”

 

“You’re going to be the death of me, wife,” he said through a grin.

 

“First I’ll be the life of you, husband,” said Arya.

 

Pod was standing in the courtyard waiting for her, staring at the blindfold in his hand with a confused expression about his face.

 

“It’s not going to bite you,” she told him, and he jumped.

 

“No, I– I just don’t understand how this will help me,” he said.

 

“You’ll understand soon enough,” said Arya, grabbing two wooden staves. “Put on the blindfold.” Podrick stared at her for a moment longer before doing as she said.

 

She threw a staff at him and it hit him in the chest. “Ow!”

 

“Pick it up.”

 

Pod looked angry but on such a nice face it only amused her. He crouched down and felt around until he grabbed it, standing up and turning his head as if trying to see.

 

Arya did as the Waif had once done to her, except she felt bad for every time she hit Pod and he waved his staff about helplessly. _So that’s what I looked like,_ she realized. _Like a helpless child._ Arya noticed that both the Lannister men and Brienne had come to watch, standing just beyond the sparring area.

 

Eventually, after becoming thoroughly frustrated, Pod yanked off his blindfold and threw it on the ground. “This is pointless! How am I supposed to fight blind?”

 

 _I know how you feel,_ she thought. _Except I was_ actually _blind._

 

Arya let out an amused noise and picked up the blindfold, turning to their audience. “Ser Brienne? Would you come here?”

 

Pod blushed when he saw them there, either embarrassed about yelling at Arya in front of them or about his failure at sparring being witnessed. Arya threw Pod’s staff at Brienne and put on the blindfold, attuning to the blindness easily.

 

“Fight me,” she commanded Brienne.

 

“My lady, are you sure?” Asked the knight.

 

She turned to where she heard Pod and called, “move aside, Ser.” Arya adjusted her stance. “I’m ready.”

 

Arya heard the whooshing of a staff being brought down and blocked it, diverting the force of it away from her. There was a pause and Arya had no doubt the knight was startled. She began to circle her and Brienne mirrored her, so Arya matched the movements by the sound of the knight’s large footsteps.

 

The ground let out two crunching noises as Brienne moved directly toward her in a lunge, grunting as she thrust her staff. Arya rolled sideways to dodge it and whacked her own staff on Brienne’s shins.

 

After that, Brienne stopped holding back and instead fought her with all her might for what seemed like hours. Arya only took a few hits and blocked all the rest, getting in a few strikes of her own. Arya was sweating and they were both panting and grunting, fighting like their lives depended on it.

 

Arya couldn’t stop smiling, and she probably looked like a fool – giggling when she rolled and grinning harder at the crack of staff on staff. She’d forgotten how enjoyable sparring with Brienne was.

 

Arya’s blindfold was damp with sweat by the end of it, and she was huffing hard with exertion when she finally tossed it on the ground. Brienne was wearing a pleased smile too and her eyes gleamed with something comparable to fondness.

 

“That was fun,” she said in between huffs for air.

 

“You are…” Brienne began. “You are incredible, Arya.”

 

Arya’s grin grew impossibly wider but it faded somewhat when she heard clapping. She turned to see that their audience had grown, and those among them were cheering. Tormund Giantsbane was howling his approval, Gendry was next to Davos and looking at her like he’d just fallen more in love with her, the Lannister men were _smiling_ at _her_ , Pod was staring at her like she’d grown three dragon heads, and Sandor… Sandor was grinning. She’d never seen him smile before.

 

Arya squeaked as something big – _Tormund_ – collided with her, grabbing her legs and thrusting her up into the air. “Hey!” She exclaimed. He put her on his shoulders like a child and hung onto her legs to keep her there.

 

“ _Arya! Arya! Arya!_ ” He chanted until the others joined in. The others kept chanting as Tormund yelled over them. “Slayer of the Night King! Destroyer of the dead! Sister to wolves and crows! Tamer of fucking dragons! Daughter of the North!” Arya giggled and put her hands on the top of Tormund’s fiery head. “She’s little, but she’s quick and strong. Quick enough to sneak up on the Night King and strong enough to get marked by him and still kill the fucker! And what kind of a girl can fight the greatest knight who ever lived while wearing a bloody blindfold?! Arya fucking Stark is that kind of girl. Jon Snow may be our king and the Dragon Queen our savior, but _this_ is our hero!”

 

Arya smiled at his praise, preening under the attention like a cat. “I’m not a hero,” she said anyway, because it was true. Tormund tilted his head back to look at her and she nearly fell off of him.

 

“Yes, you are,” said the wildling.

 

“Just accept it, girl,” Sandor said, still wearing a grin. “You won’t get anywhere trying to deny it.”

 

Arya didn’t know if she’d ever learn to accept it, but for now she would enjoy the praise.

 

After Tormund eased her back onto the ground and Davos threw her a water skin, she wiped her brow and looked up at the wildling. “So what’s it like? Riding a dragon?”

 

“Fucking terrifying!” Said Tormund, his laughter booming. “Woulda shat me pants if I’d had anything left to shit.” Arya wrinkled her nose but laughed anyway. “Your brother rides dragons like he was bloody born to do it.”

 

Arya nodded. She’d seen him during the battle riding Rhaegal like a true Targaryen. “Will you come south with us?”

 

“If your brother needs me to, I will. But the free folk need to start settling in the Gift.”

 

“If they’re alive, the mountain clans won’t like that,” said Arya.

 

“Those little shits can’t fight with those sticks up their arses,” Tormund said. “And they’ll be too weak to fight us anytime soon.”

 

“There are not many that _aren’t_ too weak to fight you _,_ Giantsbane,” she said with a smirk.

 

“You’re one of them, Stark,” said the wildling, his grin wolfish. “I’d wager you’d have me on the ground in seconds.”

 

“I’d love to, really,” she said genuinely, “but Jon would kill me if I hurt his wildling.”

 

“As I’d kill anyone who hurt my little crow,” said Tormund. Arya didn’t have to check his eyes for lies – she knew his words were spoken truthfully. “I wish I’d gotten to kill the sons of bitches that murdered him, but I guess watching them die was enough.” Arya didn’t have anything to say to that. He punched her shoulder playfully. “Congratulations on your little wedding. Your children are going to be great warriors like their mother, and they’ll be strong like their father. It’s bad luck for the free folk to name their babes before they’ve survived their second name day since babies die so often North of the Wall, but I think it would be safe to name your children while they’re still in your belly!” Tormund poked said belly and she giggled.

 

“Hey,” she said, remembering. “I’m sorry about Brienne.”

 

“Ah,” he sighed. “My heart was broken when I first heard, but my knight has chosen well. Ser Jaime is very pretty and strong; I’d had mine eyes also on him for a while.” Arya nearly laughed in surprise. _Oh, this is going to be interesting._ “All I have to do is convince them that three is better than two.”

 

“Good luck, Tormund.”

 

Arya froze when she saw Gendry and Tyrion walking towards the smithy. What was Gendry doing with the Imp? She bade farewell to Tormund and trailed her husband and the Lannister. Swift as a deer and quiet as a shadow, she slipped through the door just before it closed behind them. She avoided moving in front of the light to keep from casting shadows as she snuck around to hide behind a pillar next to the forge.

 

“So what is it, then?” Asked her husband. “What’s so secret you can’t tell me outside?”

 

“I’d like a weapon made,” said Lord Tyrion. Arya frowned and peeked around the pillar to look at his face, which gave away nothing.

 

“A weapon?” Gendry huffed. “Do you know how busy I am already? The queen wants new weapons for the Unsullied, Jon Snow wants more weapons for the Northerners, and I want to forge something for my wife!” Arya smiled at that. “And you want your own weapon?”

 

“It’s not for me, it’s for– wait, you got _married_?” There was a pause. “Is it Arya?” Arya rolled her eyes at Gendry’s loose lips.

 

She moved from behind the pillar silently and said, “yes,” startling the both of them.

 

“ _Seven fucking Hells!”_ Tyrion gasped, and Arya forced herself not to laugh when he put a hand over his heart. She glided over to Gendry and looped her arm in his. “When did you make time for a wedding?”

 

“Yesterday,” said Arya. “Who’s the weapon for?”

 

“It’s for Sansa,” he said. Arya glared at him. “A gift.”

 

“Why are you giving my sister a gift?” Arya thought maybe she needed to threaten him again.

 

“I want her to be able to protect herself when the war comes,” said the Lannister. Arya squinted and found no deception in his eyes, but she suspected it wasn’t the whole truth. When she said no more, Tyrion pulled out a piece of parchment. “I’ve never been one for sketching, but I hope you understand what I’m asking for.”

 

Gendry took the parchment and held it so they both could see what was sketched. It was a dagger – a beautiful one at that – with a Stark sigil etched into the hilt. Along the blade was written: _In winter we must protect ourselves_.

 

“Who told you those words?” Arya demanded, and Tyrion looked as though he’d rather be anywhere else.

 

“Bran did,” said Tyrion. “I thought them apt words for a dagger.”

 

“Those are my father’s words,” she said, pausing to watch him grow more uneasy. “See that you deserve to have them on your lips.”

 

“Actually they’ve not been on my _lips_ ,” Tyrion crooned, “only on my quill.” Arya sent him the look Father used to give when displeased with his boys. “Right, right, I’m the contemptible Imp and I don’t deserve to kiss the feet of the Stark’s, I know,” Tyrion said while waving his hand in appeasement.

 

“Actually just the feet of my sister,” she amended, “who your family has directly abused.”

 

“Ah, but I am not my family,” said the Lannister. “I’ll have you know that I detest most of them.”

 

“Lord Tywin told me he despised most of his family too, do you think that separated his deeds from his children and grandchildren?”

 

“Well he despised everyone, so that doesn’t– wait, he _told_ you?”

 

“He didn’t despise _me_ ,” she said. “And yes, he told me a lot of things.”

 

“Like how to alienate and berate your children until they hate you? Or how to use them when you need to and disown them when you don’t? That’s what he taught his children anyway.”

 

Arya opened her mouth to retort but Gendry sighed. “When do you want this done?”

 

“Whenever you can get it done without angering Jon, the queen, and of course… your wife,” said Tyrion. “But I would prefer if you could have it done before we march south.”

 

“It’ll cost more than your regular weapon with this etching work,” Gendry warned.

 

Tyrion reached inside his vest and pulled out a sizeable coin purse. “This should cover it.”

 

“My lord, this is too much,” Gendry said after peeking inside the purse.

 

“Consider the extra my wedding gift to you,” said Lord Tyrion. “Buy your wife something nice, like a small ship or some books to write all the names of people she’s killed.”

 

Gendry didn’t think that very funny at all, it seemed, but she squeezed his arm to calm him.

 

“That sounds nice,” she said. “Maybe I’ll buy myself a new weapon. Two just isn’t enough, I don’t think.” Her voice was practically dripping with the threat.

 

“Right, I was just leaving.”

 

Gendry turned to her as soon as Tyrion left, still holding the coin purse and parchment. “What was all that about?”

 

“He’s in love with my sister,” she said simply. Gendry frowned.

 

“ _Sansa_?” He asked with suspicion.

 

“I don’t have any other sisters, Gendry,” she said with a little smile. “And who wouldn’t be in love with her? She’s fantastic.”

 

“Well, yeah, but…” Gendry began. “ _Sansa_ and _Tyrion_?” He paused before shrugging. “I guess it makes sense.”

 

“What?” She barked. “What about that makes sense to you?”

 

He shrugged again. “I don’t know, they’re like the two smartest people in Westeros, and both of them are probably attracted to intelligence. Can you see Sansa marrying a dullard?” Arya struggled to disagree with that and shook her head. “And they were married weren’t they? Well, he must not have been a terrible husband if she hasn’t killed him yet,” Gendry concluded.

 

“It’s just…” Arya sighed. “I don’t think she’s ready.”

 

Gendry took Arya’s hand in his and gave her a chaste kiss. “I know how much you care about your sister. Why don’t you go ask Ser Davos about Lord Tyrion? I think they know each other.”

 

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll be back tonight.” Arya pecked him on the cheek. “I love you.”

 

“I love you too.”

 

Arya would never let another man touch Sansa. She had seen the scars lining her beloved sister’s body, had seen the way that snake Littlefinger looked at her, she had heard some of the stories of Joffrey and Ramsay’s cruelty… and she had seen the fear in her sister’s eyes when woken from a nightmare. She didn’t plan to kill the little Lannister just yet, but she would if she had to. Today she would gather information and watch him.

 

“What’s that?” She asked once she found Ser Davos in the courtyard, carving little pieces from a chunk of wood. He gave her a sad smile.

 

“Oh nothing,” he said. “Just something to keep the hands busy.”

 

“Hand and a half, you mean,” said Arya. She sat cross legged on the seat next to him. When he laughed it reminded her so much of her father’s laugh that it startled her.

 

“Yes. Hand and a half,” he said, with a pleased sort of smile. “D’you know that King Stannis had a daughter?”

 

She was supposed to be the one interrogating _him_. “Never met her.”

 

“She had grayscale as a babe but the maesters were able to stop it from spreadin’. Half her face was dead and scaly and her mother scorned her for it. She was sweet and kind, my little princess, never harmed a fly. I grew to love her like she was my own daughter. I gave her a carving like the one I’m making now,” said Ser Davos as he held up the shapeless wood.

 

“What happened to her?” Asked Arya, resting her elbows on her folded knees.

 

“The Red Woman burned her at the stake and Stannis let her,” Davos said, his smile vanished. He went back to carving. “I wasn’t there to help her.”

 

Arya was grateful that Father never lived to see his children die, but a selfish part of her wished she’d died before him. Though, she couldn’t imagine the pain he would’ve felt if Arya was killed. Ser Davos was making her feel bad about her plan to manipulate him into talking about Tyrion.

 

“Melisandre was on my list,” Arya said quietly.

 

“And what list would that be?”

 

“The list of people I’m going to kill.” Arya furrowed her brow at the slow smile that appeared on his face as he continued carving.

 

“How’d she get on that list, if I might ask?”

 

“She kidnapped Gendry,” Arya said, playing with a loose thread on her trousers. “And she hurt him… not just physically.”

 

“Nasty business, that,” said Davos. “Very nearly lost my head for releasing him.”

 

“Why _did_ you release him?” Asked Arya.

 

“‘Cause it was the right thing to do,” Davos said simply. “And I have a bad habit of adopting bastards and shunned children.” His smile was wry.

 

“Well, you don’t have to worry about Gendry – I’ll protect him.”

 

“I don’t doubt that, little wolf,” said Ser Davos. Arya’s chest twisted at the name. Father used to call her that. “And I don’t worry about you either.”

 

Arya furrowed her brow at his kind eyes. _He’s trying to adopt me too,_ she realized.

 

“So who’s the carving for?” She asked to confirm her suspicions.

 

“You.” Arya looked away. “It’s a direwolf. Well, it will be once I’ve finished it.”

 

 _I’m not like your little princess,_ she thought. _I’m a murderer._

 

“You saw me today in the courtyard, yes?” Davos nodded. _Time to push this kind man away._ “I learned how to do that in Braavos.” Arya took out her dagger and twirled it in her hand. “My father hired a man named Syrio Forel, the First Sword of Braavos, to teach me to water dance in King’s Landing. After… after I lost my family, I traveled across the Narrow Sea to train with the Faceless Men of Braavos.”

 

“The– the Faceless Men?”

 

“Yes. Have you heard of them?”

 

“Oh, aye. Just never imagined a Stark finding their way into their ranks, but I suppose I shoulda expected that from what I’ve ‘eard about you.” He did not look the slightest bit perturbed that Arya had just confessed to training with assassins, which meant she’d have to work a bit harder to push this one away. “That how you snuck up on the Night King?”

 

“Yes,” she said, a little confused by his behavior. “You don’t seem at all disturbed.”

 

Ser Davos chuckled. “We all do what we must to survive, sweetling. I don’t judge you for turning to the Faceless Men anymore than I judge myself for turning to smuggling or Sansa for not fighting her captors in King’s Landing.” Arya frowned at him when she observed no trace of falsehood in his eyes.

 

“What you saw today, I learned how to do that when I was blind,” she said. “That was my punishment for killing a man I wasn’t supposed to kill. I killed Ser Meryn Trant for murdering my water dancing teacher, but I didn’t just kill him; first I blinded him, gagged him, then I stabbed him so many times that I can’t remember the number, and then I slit his throat.”

 

But Davos didn’t show disgust. “Good,” he said.

 

“Good?” She repeated.

 

“That man was a right pervert – he deserved every second of it,” said Ser Davos.

 

She didn’t understand. What drew a man like him to a girl like her? Why was he still carving that direwolf for her after the things she told him? Pushing him away was getting her nowhere so she decided to instead return to her original purpose.

 

She quickly planned how to guide the conversation to Tyrion naturally, grimacing at how she reminded herself of Littlefinger. She stopped twirling her dagger and held it out hilt first for him to take. He set down his carving and gently took it from her, holding it up to the sun to inspect it.

 

“Fine blade,” Davos commented, running his fingertips along the plain steel. “Is this what you killed the Night King with?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“A blade such as this should ‘ave a name, don’t you think?” Davos asked, handing the dagger back to her.

 

“Oh, yes,” said Arya, “I’ve named it Dawnbringer.” Arya grinned at Davos’ charmed smile and resumed twirling her dagger.

 

“Good name for the dagger that ended the War for Dawn.”

 

“This dagger didn’t just end a war, y’know, it started one.”

 

“How’s that?”

 

“This dagger was used by the assassin who attempted to murder my brother Bran after he fell,” she said, rubbing the dragonbone handle under her thumb. “My mother took this dagger to King’s Landing to inquire about its owner. Littlefinger told her it belonged to Tyrion Lannister, and for that she kidnapped him. Lord Tywin started a war for him, and everything went downhill from there.”

 

“Scheming little weasel…” Davos cursed. Arya would’ve thought he referred to Tyrion had he not continued. “I shoulda killed that man all those years ago at that wretched tourney. I very nearly did, mind you. See, a few Frey children were picking on my Shireen for her Greyscale and she ran from the tourney all a’snivel.

 

“Stannis was thunderous at those boys and I went after her, but someone had already found her. _‘It wasn’t true what they said about you. They’re just afraid of you,’_ Littlefinger told her. _‘Afraid of me? I’m just a girl,’_ says Shireen. _‘They’re afraid of your face,’_ he says. _‘There’s not a single person in this world who isn’t. Why do you think your father avoids you? And your mother? The most afraid of all. Everyone is scared of your face except for me,’_. _‘You’re not afraid?’_ She asks. _‘No, and neither is Robin Arryn,’_ he says.

 

“He meant to betroth the Princess to the heir to the Vale, so he and Lysa Arryn could control Dragonstone through Shireen’s children. Stannis put a stop to that.”

 

“Littlefinger said Tyrion bet against his brother and won his dagger at that tourney.”

 

“Hah!” Davos barked. “Weren’t anybody wailing louder than Tyrion Lannister when Loras Tyrell unhorsed Ser Jaime. No doubt he paid many betting debts that day.”

 

“So you two knew each other then? Before the war?”

 

“Oh, yes,” said Davos. “That day – at the tourney – Lord Tyrion approached my Shireen after she had fled. And after that they exchanged letters.”

 

“What did he say to her, then?”

 

“He asked if she liked stories about dragons,” Davos chuckled. “He told her that she had both the beauty of a woman and a dragon, and she should embrace it. He said that she should wear her scales like armor as dragons do, with pride. Shireen must’ve read every book in Westeros on dragons after that. I don’t think he understands how much he helped her.”

 

“And Lord Stannis Baratheon allowed his daughter to exchange letters with a Lannister?”

 

“No, not at all,” he said. “He caught her and put their correspondence at an end. He condemned the man for his drunken reputation.”

 

“I assume you didn’t then?”

 

“Well, he may be a _bit_ of a drinker but he’s not the drunken pervert that Stannis judged him to be.” Davos set his carving down with an air of finality, as if giving her his full attention, and peered at her. “Is that why you’re asking about Tyrion? His drinking?”

 

“I never asked you about him,” Arya said, frustrated that she’d been caught.

 

“Relax, little wolf,” he said, offering his hands in surrender. “No harm done. I grew up in King’s Landing – I know a thing or two about manipulation. But… you don’t have to manipulate here, my lady, you can just ask and the people here will answer. I will answer.”

 

Arya sighed. There might not ever be a time when she felt safe enough to just ask.

 

“So what’s your answer?” She asked finally. “Is he a good man?”

 

“Yes, my lady, one of the best.”

 

Davos pointed her in Tyrion’s direction and told her that she’d find his judgement to be true if she observed the man.

 

Arya found him in the stables, speaking with the twin daughters of the master of horses. Arya snuck around the outside of the building until nothing but wood separated her and Tyrion, and the voices inside were clearer.

 

“–ave to knit winter clothing, I know that, but this is very important.”

 

“How is a tapestry important?” Asked one of the girls.

 

“Because it is for your liege lady,” said Tyrion. Arya leaned closer against the wall. “Here, take this.” There was clinking as pieces of gold were jostled in a purse. “There’s enough in there to buy a ship – how much food do you think that would buy?”

 

“Why us? You’ve never even seen how good we are at needlepoint.”

 

“Because you knew the Stark family,” Tyrion said. “And that’s what I want you to knit.” There was a long pause and then the rustling of parchment.

 

“Alright. We’re listening.”

 

“Wonderful. From left to right I’d like Rickon, Bran in his wheeled chair, Theon, Sansa, Ned, Catelyn, Robb and his wife, Arya, and Jon. And in front of them should be the direwolves. Do you remember what all of them looked like?”

 

“Of course we do. But neither of us ever met the Lady Talisa.”

 

“No matter, I’ll have a sketch of her brought to you. Have them all smiling, would you? You may add embellishments but make sure they’re all smiling. And when you knit the direwolves, knit them as you’d imagine they’d have looked like if they’d lived to grow.”

 

Arya turned her gaze away from the stables as she tried to calm her swirling thoughts. _What if he’s just trying to get Sansa to let her guard down? A lamb that never sees the blade tastes sweeter. But maybe he truly cares for her… maybe he has no dark plans for her._

 

Arya followed him from the stables to the keep, staying a corner behind him as he traversed the halls, until he came upon Bran’s chambers.

 

“Leave the door open,” said Bran once Tyrion entered. “The air in here is stale.”

 

Arya stepped silently closer, leaning against the stone next to Bran’s door.

 

“Would you like me to open a window?” Tyrion asked.

 

“No, this suits me just fine.”

 

“Wonderful.” Tyrion paused and Arya heard the faint noise of wine being poured into a glass. “The twins will make the tapestry but they’re not sure how long it will take, and I still have to speak with that man you said could sketch Lady Talisa.”

 

“I’m sure it will turn out nicely.” There was a moment of silence and then the sound of wheels on stone. “You shouldn’t drink so much.”

 

“Shouldn’t I?” The lilt of Lord Tyrion’s voice was sarcastic. “I have plenty reasons to drink.”

 

“And one more important reason not to; Sansa doesn’t like it. Some of the scariest moments of her life have been in the company of drunken people. The Hound, Ramsay, Joffrey, your sister…”

 

“Ah, well, I suppose that’s just one more thing Cersei had to ruin for me.”

 

“She didn’t ruin it for _you_ , Tyrion, she ruined it for my sister. Do you really think that your giving up wine compares to the suffering my sister goes through – the _fear_ she feels – in the presence of drunk people?” Bran’s protective tone amused Arya. _Seems I’m not the only one looking out for her._

 

“You’re right, as usual,” said Lord Tyrion. “It’s just… I’ve been drinking since I was six and ten! How in the Seven Hells do I stop now?”

 

“If you wish to marry my sister, you must cut back on the drinking. That should be incentive enough, don’t you think?” Tyrion’s silence affirmed that. “Have you told her about Tysha?”

 

“I don’t want to scare her off before I even get to start courting her, Bran,” said Tyrion, a sharpness to his voice. Arya rested her hand on Needle.

 

“ _Start?_ ” Bran repeated. “You’ve been courting her since you married her, Tyrion. Your past will scare her off no more than hers will you.”

 

“She doesn’t need to know about that yet.”

 

“No, not yet, but soon. Sansa is going to tell you about what Ramsay did to her, what she went through in our own home. She’s going to test you to see if you truly care about her. Then is when you must tell her, and by doing so lay out your heart aside hers.”

 

Arya felt her brow knit together as Bran spoke. Sansa had never told Arya about what exactly Ramsay did to her, and now she was going to spill her guts to a bloody _Lannister_? Arya never asked her for details – she assumed Sansa would tell her when she was ready. She understood why Sansa wouldn’t want to tell Jon; he would get angry and pity her. And neither Bran nor Rickon would know what to say if she told them. But why not Arya? Why a Lannister instead of her own sister?

 

“–we leave off?” Arya heard Tyrion say once she snapped out of her thoughts.

 

“The last one was my aunt and uncles in the training yard.”

 

“Ah, yes. Which memories shall we do today?”

 

“There’s one with Aunt Lyanna and my grandmother Lyarra,” said Bran. Arya heard the crinkling of parchment and she scooted a bit closer to the door.

 

“Alright, I’m ready.”

 

There was a pause and the sort of absentminded tone of Bran’s next words told her that he was somewhere else. “Lya’s in the Godswood with Ben – they’re sparring with branches. She’s beating him. She sweeps his legs out with her branch and he falls into the pool and now he’s splashing and shouting. _‘You be quiet, stupid. It’s just water. Do you want Old Nan to hear and run and tell Father?’._ She pulls him out, but… but someone’s here.”

 

Arya wrung her hands together as she wondered why in the Seven Hells Bran was telling Lord Tyrion about House Stark’s previous generation.

 

“It’s Grandmother. _‘Go to your chambers, Ben. Get on some dry clothes,’_ she says. Ben spares Lya an apologetic glance and now he’s sprinting out of the Godswood. _‘I’m sorry, Mother.’_. _‘Don’t apologize if you’re not sorry, Lyanna.’,_ ” said Bran. “Grandmother guides Lya to sit on a log. _‘Your father doesn’t want you playing with swords,’_ she tells her. _‘Why not? Targaryen women have swords,’_ Lya says. _‘Sweetling, you are not a Targaryen. Now, I won’t tell your father about today if you promise to stop playing at swords.’_. Lya promises but she doesn’t promise to stop playing with branches.”

 

“Clever little wolf. She’s so much like Lady Arya,” said Tyrion. “It’s a good thing Lord Eddard learned from his father’s mistakes and put a sword in his daughter’s hand.”

 

“She looks so much like Lyanna. They could be twins.” Arya forced herself to relax her confused face. Father had always said that she looked like her aunt, but twins?

 

“Perhaps once this tapestry is finished, I’ll have one made of the last generation.”

 

“Sansa would like that,” said Bran. “Are you ready for the next one?”

 

“Yes,” said Tyrion after a pause.

 

“This one’s about Hodor and my father,” Bran said. Arya gasped lightly. “Father’s on his way to the stables with an armful of blood oranges. When he enters, Wylis is crying in the corner. He stops crying and wipes his eyes when he sees Father. _‘Sorry, milord,’_ says Wylis. _‘You’ve nothing to be sorry for, my friend,’_ Father says. He hands an orange to Wylis. _‘I’m sorry about what those boys said to you. I told my father about it, and he’s given them manure duty for a week.’._ Wylis laughs and so does Father.

 

“ _‘But it was true what they said. I am a dullard,’_ says Wylis. Father puts a hand on his shoulder. _‘Listen to me, Wylis, you are not stupid. D’you hear me? You are a retainer of House Stark and you are mine and Lya’s and Brandon’s and Ben’s friend. You are good and kind and loyal, and that is all that matters,’_ says Father. _‘Thanks, Ned,’_ Wylis says. He’s smiling now. _‘Any time. And if those boys say something else to you, I’ll have my father make them chamberpot maids.’_.”

 

Arya wiped away her tears silently, pushing away her grief.

 

“Every story I hear of him only raises my regard for him. Pretty soon I’ll hold him in higher regard than the gods,” said Tyrion. “I’ll put these in the book and I’ll be back on the morrow.”

 

Arya slipped into a nearby room and waited for Tyrion’s footsteps to fade away before she went to Bran’s chambers. Bran didn’t look at all surprised to see her.

 

“So what was that about?” She asked him.

 

“It saddens Sansa that Father never told stories about his family, so Tyrion came to me to record some. He’s also asked me to describe the Lady Talisa to an artist so our family tapestry will be complete.”

 

“Why? Why is he giving her these things?”

 

“They’re courting gifts,” said Bran. “He’s in love with her and wants to court her properly since she hasn’t been before. And he wants her to have plenty of time to reject him.”

 

“Do you think he deserves her?” She asked. If anyone would know, it would be him.

 

“Does Ser Jaime deserve Brienne?” Bran asked instead of answering. “It isn’t always about deserve, Arya. Sometimes two people are just meant to be together – like you and Gendry. Everything they’ve gone through has pushed them together; from the moment Tywin Lannister shunned Tyrion to the moment he became Hand of the Queen, and from the moment Lady died to the moment Sansa killed Littlefinger.

 

“They were ready to die defending the weak together in the crypt, y’know. How do you think two strangers forced into a marriage and then separated for years ended up in a crypt fighting the dead together? It’s fate, Arya, and you can’t meddle in fate.”

 

“I don’t carry about bloody fate, little brother,” she said. “I only want to make sure Sansa’s safe and happy.”

 

“She’s safe with Tyrion, I promise. And they will be happy together, or else I wouldn’t be helping him court her.” She smiled.

 

“I thought you said you can’t meddle in fate.”

 

“I said _you_ couldn’t meddle in fate,” he corrected with a grin. “I never said _I_ couldn’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! I was perusing tumblr to see posts about what people wished had happened in the show (character interactions/dialogues/plot stuff etc) and I’m making a list of stuff to fit into the story. So if anyone has any requests for things they’d like to see in later chapters, please comment! I can’t promise anything, but I’ll do my best to include it. 
> 
> What do you guys think Arya and Gendry’s House should be named? I really can’t decide, so please comment your opinion! 
> 
> This fic was actually just supposed to be a sanrion fix-it but then the show ruined braime and gendrya and Dany and basically everything so now I have to fix all of it. I can’t wait to write Cersei :) But next chapter is back to sanrion I promise.


	5. Suggestions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the input last chapter, everybody! Your comments keep me inspired :)

**Sansa II**

 

Sansa entered her chambers with scrolls of blank parchment balancing in her arms, not even startled to find Arya sitting on her bed. Sansa had expected her visit to come sometime during the day for a report on the Dragon Queen, after all. She sighed and closed the door behind herself, setting the parchment on her table before pouring two goblets of wine. She handed one to Arya and sat on the bed beside her.

 

“So,” Sansa began, “I assume all went well with the Dragon Queen?”

 

“She’s the right one to rule, Sansa,” said Arya. Sansa took a sip of wine and sighed in relief.

 

“Oh, thank the Gods,” she said. Sansa didn’t trust Jon’s judgement since he was obviously in love with the queen, but she trusted her sister. If Arya said Daenerys was good, then she was good. “And what did she think of our plans?”

 

“She’s agreed to them,” Arya said, but Sansa could tell there was something bothering her.

 

“Have you told Gendry that you’ll be going to the capital alone?”

 

Arya set down the goblet of wine without drinking a single sip. “No, I– I… we got married,” said her sister as she looked away.

 

Sansa’s shocked gasp turned into a laugh. She put her goblet down and embraced Arya, overwhelmed by joy for her little sister. “Oh Arya, I’m so happy for you.” Sansa heard what sounded like a sigh of relief, and she pulled away. “Did you think I’d disapprove because he’s a bastard?”

 

“Actually,” Arya began with a nervous smile. “I thought you might disapprove because he _isn’t_ one.”

 

Sansa was confused now. “What do you mean?”

 

“Dany made him a Baratheon,” she said, not giving Sansa time to wonder how the Dragon Queen became _Dany_ to Arya, “and now I’m the Lady of Storm’s End.” Sansa had not felt such joy in a very long time, and it felt strange in her chest.

 

“Arya, that’s amazing!” Sansa said, grabbing her sister’s hand and squeezing. “You could garrison an entire army there! And that castle can survive a siege for years; the walls are too tall for storming, and it can be supplied by the sea! You’ll be able to control the Stormlands and supply– wait, why would I disapprove?” She had forgotten Arya’s plight.

 

“Because– because I won’t be around to protect you,” said Arya.

 

 _Oh,_ she thought, letting out a long exhale. It would be strange to go without her little shadow, and maybe even a bit frightening, but she would survive as she always had.

 

“Arya, I never thought you would protect me forever,” she said, squeezing her hand in reassurance. “I’ll still have Brienne to guard me.”

 

“I know,” Arya said quietly. “And I– I feel better about it after today.”

 

“Because of your talk with the Dragon Queen?”

 

“No,” said Arya. “Tyrion Lannister is in love with you.”

 

“What?” She barked. “Tyrion cares for me, but _love_? No, he doesn’t love me.” Sansa turned her gaze away from Arya.

 

Or did he…? And what if he did? What would she do then?

 

Would she marry him again? Would she _want_ to?

 

Sansa was somewhat alarmed that the notion of taking Tyrion as husband again did not frighten her. He was gentle and kind and smart and he took care of her when she was vulnerable. He would not hurt her, she was sure of that.

 

But would she be happy? Sansa grabbed her wine and drained it. She supposed it didn’t really matter if she was happy or not, but it was so tempting to think that maybe… maybe she could find peace as Tyrion’s wife.

 

_“When you’re old enough, I’ll make you a match with someone who’s worthy of you; someone who’s brave and gentle and strong.”_

 

Sansa wondered if Tyrion might be that person Father promised her.

 

“Trust me sister,” Arya said, grabbing her attention, “he’s in love with you.”

 

 _In love…_ she thought, _with me._

 

Sansa remembered the moments they’d spent in the crypt during the battle; holding hands behind Father’s tomb and speaking volumes without opening their lips. Sansa had accepted her fate then, accepted the notion that she’d die by Tyrion’s side. But what did that mean?

 

Why was she so comfortable in Tyrion’s presence? Why did she not feel fear when she sobbed in front of him in the crypt? Why did his embrace ease her grief? Why did her chest fill with warmth to look upon him? Why did his presence ground her? Why had she seen fit to tell him she had been in love with Margaery? Why had she confided in him in the crypts and asked if he thought she was a bad person? And why did his answer comfort her?

 

Deep down Sansa knew the answer to all those questions, but she could not bring herself to acknowledge it.

 

“He doesn’t– he _cannot_ love me for all I am,” she said, and then her lip started to wobble. “He doesn’t know about my scars– he doesn’t know that I’m not a whole person anymore.”

 

Arya’s face twisted with concern, her grey eyes wide with worry. Sansa was relieved to find no trace of pity in those eyes. Arya slid off the bed to her knees in front of Sansa, grabbing her hands and squeezing them.

 

“I know about your scars and _I_ love you,” said Arya. Sansa opened her mouth to protest but Arya shook her head. “And don’t say that it’s different. You’re an incredible woman, Sansa, even with– _especially_ with your scars.” Sansa couldn’t bring herself to look away from Arya’s intense gaze. “And that bastard did not have the power to take away your wholeness, even if you feel like he did. _All_ of you is still here, right in front of me, and I love _all_ of you… and I believe Tyrion does too.” Arya looked sure of her belief but Sansa found it hard to trust her judgment in this. Arya must’ve sensed her hesitation because a sort of understanding passed over her features. “If you don’t believe me, tell Tyrion about what you’ve been through. Test his feelings and make your own judgement.”

 

Even though the thought of marrying him did not frighten Sansa, giving voice to her past _absolutely_ did. She hadn’t told anyone the specifics of the tortures she endured as Ramsay’s wife. She didn’t even let herself think of it most of the time. It was just too much. How in the Seven Hells was she meant to tell _Tyrion_ about… about _that?_

 

“Lord Tyrion always knows what to say and how to say it,” she mused, “but even he could not possibly find any words for this. I doubt he’ll even be able to look me in the eyes afterward.”

 

“Then you’d have your answer, wouldn’t you?” Arya proposed.

 

“And what if the answer is…” she decided to rephrase so as not to condemn herself, “what if I don’t like the answer?”

 

“Then I’ll kill him for hurting my sister,” said Arya. Sansa laughed, not because she believed Arya to be jesting, but because she knew her little sister would do as she said in a heartbeat.

 

“I believe you.” Sansa smiled at Arya’s talent for making her feel better. She wished her sister all the happiness in the world, and she hoped that Gendry could give her that. “So… how does it feel to be Arya Baratheon?”

 

“I’m not a Baratheon,” said Arya, bringing a frown to Sansa’s face. “I am now Arya of House Startheon.”

 

Sansa’s face split into a wide grin at that. _Yes,_ she realized, _Gendry will bring her happiness._

  


~~~~~

  


Sansa spent the next two sennights overseeing both the reconstruction of the castle walls and the resealing of the crypt’s tombs, during which she considered her options and most often… she considered Tyrion.

 

She considered his deeds, his wits and mind, his gentleness, his regard for her, and his face. She thought about his face a _lot._ He was not pretty like Margaery had been, no, but there was something about him– something she found attractive. She quite liked the beard he’d acquired; it added to the rugged look the scar gave him. And the scar… Sansa thought herself the image of hypocrisy when confronted with her attraction to scars, since the ones on her own body repulsed her.

 

It was one thing that Tyrion and Sandor – two men she’d found herself attracted to at some point in her life – had in common. _My knights in shining armor_ , she thought to herself with a chuckle.

 

The direwolf at the foot of Theon’s freshly-crafted tomb jumped at the sudden noise and Sansa smiled. “Sorry, Ghost,” she said.

 

Sansa was sat across from Theon’s tomb with her sewing work in her lap, humming a tune to herself every once in a while. She knew Brienne had no fondness for gowns, so instead she was creating a dress that transformed into pants at the waist. The fabric was silk she’d dyed dark blue to display House Tarth’s colors, and to bring regard to Brienne’s handsome blue eyes.

 

A dress for Brienne required a lot of fabric, but thankfully silk was in abundance since winter had come. Ser Jaime had graciously offered his own measurements – since he and his betrothed were nearly the same size – so Sansa’s creation could be a surprise for Brienne.

 

Sansa recognized the footsteps of Tyrion’s brief stride and an inexplicable smile came to her lips. “Good morrow, my lord,” she greeted.

 

“And to you, my lady,” said Tyrion. Sansa looked up from her needlepoint and turned her gaze to Tyrion, who was hovering nervously with his hands behind his back, wearing a thin smile. “What are you making?”

 

Sansa disregarded his nervousness and stood, holding up the half-finished garment for him to see. “It’s for Brienne – for her wedding.”

 

“A gown with pants? Very clever, my lady,” Tyrion said. Sansa gazed downward to hide her pleased smile at his praise.

 

“I hope she likes it,” said Sansa, hanging the gown over the back of her chair, “after everything she’s done for me.”

 

“I’ve no doubt that she will,” Tyrion assured her.

 

“Don’t tell her about it; Ser Jaime wishes for it to be a surprise,” Sansa said, wringing her hands as she looked upon Tyrion.

 

“Ah, you need not fear on that front,” said Lord Tyrion. “Lannister’s have notoriously tight lips.”

 

Sansa laughed involuntarily at that little jest, the noise strange coming from her mouth. “I’d forgotten. Perhaps your House’s saying would be _‘A Lannister always keeps their secrets’_ , if you did not wish to keep that very knowledge a secret.”

 

Sansa found it impossible to stop a triumphal smirk from reaching her lips at Tyrion’s laugh. “I do think that you know too much, my dear.” Sansa’s breathing quickened and her cheeks heated at the term of affection.

 

 _Was Arya right?_ She wondered. _Don’t be a fool, this does not mean he loves you._

 

Tyrion must’ve sensed her discomfort because he quickly changed the subject. “Oh, I had something made for you,” he said, removing his hands from behind his back to reveal an object hidden in cloth. He held it out for her to take but she simply stared at it. “A gift.”

 

“A gift?” She asked with a doubtful raise of her eyebrow.

 

“You see, it’s something given voluntarily without payment in return,” Tyrion quipped.

 

“Yes, thank you, I know what a gift is,” said Sansa with a roll of her eyes.

 

She took the gift from his palm and glanced at him once more before unfolding the cloth. Inside was a dagger that had a shiny black stone hilt which was adorned with an engraved direwolf just below the crossguard. Sansa ran her thumb over the ridges of the direwolf’s head and looked to Tyrion, who was watching her with ardent eyes.

 

“Oh, Lord Tyrion, this is–” _Too much. Not enough. Overwhelming. Unexpected._

 

“Go on, unsheathe it,” said Tyrion, looking between her and the dagger in her hands.

 

Sansa pulled the dagger from its sheathe and revealed the words, _‘in winter we must protect ourselves’_ written along the blade.

 

“It’s wonderful, Tyrion,” she said. She attempted to make the question clear in her voice. _Why? What does this mean?_

 

“I want you to be safe,” he replied to her unspoken thoughts. “I know you have Brienne and the Hound and Arya to look after you, but I wanted to give you a little protection of mine own. Obviously I’m not a knight or a Clegane or a very scary little assassin, so I think the knowledge that you can protect yourself will assure me better than attempting to protect you myself.” He continued before she could say anything. “And I like giving gifts to people I like.”

 

“So you give daggers to every pretty girl you like?” She half-jested.

 

“Quite definitely not,” said Tyrion. “Only the ones I’m sure won’t stab me in the back with it.” Sansa chuckled even though she still hadn’t been given her answer. She sheathed her dagger and leaned down to kiss him on the cheek, a little longer than her previous pecks. His beard tickled her face.

 

“Thank you, Lord Tyrion, I shall treasure this gift,” she said.

 

Tyrion excused himself soon after and she sat back down, admiring her dagger instead of resuming her sewing. Sansa unsheathed and sheathed it over and over again, imagining sinking her dagger into Ramsay’s stomach and gutting him. She held the blade up so it pointed at the ceiling and stared at its tip as she turned it in her palm. _So sharp,_ she thought. _Sharp enough to pierce a skull._

 

“A fine blade,” came a silken voice. Sansa pointed her dagger at the intruder and found a spider at its end. “I yield, I yield,” Varys said, unfolding his hands to hold them up in feigned submission.

 

Sansa sighed as she lowered her dagger. “You startled me, my lord.”

 

“As spiders are often wont to do,” said Varys. “May I sit with you?” Sansa nodded and gestured to the seat beside her. “I fear we haven’t had the chance to chat since you fled the capital in such haste.”

 

“Nor did we chat while I was _in_ the capital, as I recall,” she said as Varys sat.

 

He hummed. “A pity, that. I always knew you to be smarter than you let others believe, but you must understand how it would make me look to–”

 

“Be seen speaking with the daughter of a traitor?” She finished for him.

 

“Precisely,” said Varys. “A spider conversing with a wolf would’ve been very suspicious indeed. I hope you can forgive me for leaving you to the lions.”

 

Sansa waved her hand dismissively, setting her knife in her lap and retrieving her sewing project. “I expected help from no one in the capital, least of all the king’s spider.” She watched him out of the corner of her eye. “But I remember the day I begged Joffrey’s mercy like it was yesterday, and I remember what the king’s spider had to say then.”

 

“If only the words hadn’t fallen on deaf ears.”

 

“Mm. Those ears were deaf to anything he didn’t want to hear.” She squinted at him. “Were you privy to Littlefinger’s role in Joffrey’s murder?”

 

“After the wedding, yes. And to think a sweet old woman like the Lady Olenna would be capable of such a thing…” Varys drawled.

 

Sansa sighed at herself for failing to infer Lady Olenna’s guilt previously. Sansa remembered that day she’d told Margaery and Lady Olenna of Joffrey’s villainous character, and she realized that she’d bore witness to the moment the woman decided to murder the bastard.

 

“Her thorns were sharpest when it came to protecting her granddaughter,” she said, almost to herself.

 

“Indeed. It was a shame that her and Lord Baelish’s plan was to put the blame on a newly wedded couple,” said Varys.

 

“Lady Olenna no longer had need of me since I married Tyrion,” Sansa said. “And Littlefinger had a plan to get me out of the capital – not that he didn’t dispose of me when it suited him.”

 

“Disposing of you was a very foolish move for a very smart man,” Varys said.

 

“It was one of the last mistakes he ever made.”

 

Varys let out a sort of half-chuckle. “And what was his last mistake then? I assume it’s the one that got him killed?”

 

“He attempted to pit Arya and myself against one another,” Sansa said as she looped her needle around the thread to tie a knot. “It was quite a bit of fun to act like we weren’t playing into his hand on purpose. He was stupid enough to believe that he could turn wolves on each other, as he’d done with my mother and her sister.”

 

“Tell me,” said Varys, “what was the look on his face when he realized it was over?”

 

Sansa smiled wickedly. “Shock, confusion; two things I’d never seen on his face before.” Sansa imitated Littlefinger’s raspy voice as she repeated his words. “ _‘Lady Sansa, forgive me, but I’m a bit confused’_.” Varys did chuckle then.

 

“I wish I could’ve been there to see that,” said the spider. “I found it quite fitting that the blade he used to start a war was the blade used to end his life. Awfully poetic, wouldn’t you say?”

 

Sansa nodded. “I’m sure the minstrels shall have no problem putting that to song.”

 

“Speaking of blades,” Varys began, gesturing to her lap, “might I see your dagger?” Sansa handed it to him once she was sure she was in no immediate danger.

 

Varys unsheathed it and read the words along the blade. “Lord Tyrion does have an eye for beauty,” Varys said with a pointed look toward her. She hoped he couldn’t see the color rising in her cheeks.

 

“I presume you graced the crypt with your presence to speak of a matter greater than beauty...?”

 

Varys handed her dagger back and folded his hands in his lap. “Matters of the heart _are_ usually greater than those of the eye, I’ve found.”

 

Sansa was tired of speaking in tongues. “And to whose heart do you refer? Mine or Tyrion’s?”

 

“Both, actually,” said Varys. “I think you and I can both agree that the two hearts are irrevocably connected.”

 

“That’s quite an assumption, my lord,” Sansa said. “I assume you have a point.”

 

“Not an especially unlikely assumption to make, my lady,” Varys taunted. “Not a point perhaps, but I do have a suggestion.”

 

“Go on, then,” Sansa said, “suggest.”

 

“My Lord Tyrion has had some… _poor luck_ ,” Varys articulated, “with the fairer sex. Both of his most serious affairs have ended with _serious_ consequences.”

 

Sansa raised an eyebrow. “And mine have not?”

 

“They have,” Varys agreed, “which is one of the reasons I want you and Tyrion to continue down this path of courtship.”

 

“ _Courtship?_ ” She spat.

 

“Your blindness in this matter is touching, really,” said Varys. “But I don’t believe you to be _completely_ blind.” Sansa couldn’t stop herself from glancing at the dagger. “There are many more courting gifts where that one came from.”

 

 _Courting gifts_ , she repeated in her head. _Tyrion is truly courting me_. Sansa hadn’t completely believed Arya’s words, though now she supposed that there was no point in lying to herself. Tyrion Lannister was in love with her. But Sansa didn’t know if she was ready to open up her heart again.

 

“You were going to suggest something?” Sansa asked.

 

“Accept his gifts, accept his hand in marriage, and create some happiness for the both of you.” Varys stood and made a wide gesture to the crypt. “I believe both you and Tyrion are in dire need of it.”

 

Sansa stared at the spider. “And what, pray tell, has compelled you to act on this belief?”

 

The spider’s lips stretched into a slow smile. “Friends are hard to come by in Westeros, my lady, and I find myself under a certain obligation to look after mine.” Sansa had nothing to say to that. She wondered how exactly Tyrion found himself a friend of the master of whisperers. “One more thing, my lady. If it would be of any interest to you, I could use an apprentice of your… talent,” Varys said. “My last apprentice was killed on Littlefinger’s orders, so it seems apt that the next one be the woman who killed him.”

 

Sansa didn’t have to think very hard on her answer. “Thank you, my lord, but I’ve had enough of hiding in the shadows.” Varys inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Though, I think you might find my brother Bran to be better suited for the job. Perhaps even the best suited for it.”

 

The silence that enveloped the crypt once Varys took his leave was deafening, and Sansa found herself unable to focus on her needlepoint. She stuffed Brienne’s gown into her basket and carried it with her to the courtyard to watch Arya and Podrick spar.

 

Though, as she realized upon taking her seat, it was less like sparring and more like a beating. The _whack_ of staff on armor did help to distract her from her thoughts of Tyrion, at least.

 

Sansa was humming “The Song of the Seven” and stitching a seam when Ser Jaime sat beside her. Sansa noticed that his golden hand had not made an appearance since his and Brienne’s union.

 

“Please don’t tell me you’ve broken a second bed,” Sansa taunted, and Ser Jaime laughed.

 

“Do not fear, my lady,” said Jaime, “we’ve been very careful. I merely approached you to ask how the gown fares.”

 

“It should be done in another sennight,” Sansa said. Jaime nodded but Sansa sensed that the conversation was not over. “Is there something else, Ser?”

 

Jaime turned his gaze to where Arya was dancing around Pod. “A few days after the battle, I came to watch,” Jaime gestured to the sparring, “this. The poor boy looked like me after I lost my hand. But then– then your sister puts on the blindfold and she holds her own against my betrothed – perhaps the greatest knight who ever lived. She fights with a blindfold on as well as she does without it. How?”

 

Sansa smiled as she stitched. “You’re not the only person to have lost something, Ser Jaime,” she said. “My sister lost her eyes for a time… a time during which she lived on the streets while an assassin beat her with a staff. You learned to fight without your right hand, and my sister learned to fight without her eyes.”

 

Jaime was still watching Arya fight as if contemplating something. “I can’t imagine how hard that must’ve been.”

 

“You can’t imagine a lot of what we Stark’s have been through, Ser,” she said pointedly. She kept stitching but she watched him out of the corner of her eye. “We’ve all lost dreams and loved ones. Brandon was the biggest dreamer of us all.” Sansa kept her voice innocent as she spoke. “He wanted to be a knight of the Kingsguard. He used to blather on and on about his heroes; Ser Barristan the Bold, Ser Arthur Dayne, Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, Ser Ryam Redwyne.” Sansa smiled sadly. “But still he loved climbing even more than his stories. Mother once made him promise to stop climbing but Father found him a fortnight later sleeping in the tallest sentinel of the Godswood. Father called Bran his little squirrel after that. You can’t imagine how devastated he was to lose his legs.” Sansa caught the flash of guilt in Jaime’s eyes before he could hide it.

 

 _Good,_ she thought. _Feel guilty. You caused my brother a lot of pain._

 

“And what was your dream then?” Asked Ser Jaime.

 

“To be queen.” Sansa shook her head. “When my betrothed had me beaten day after day, I gave up on that particular dream.” She was surprised to see shock appear on Ser Jaime’s face at that particular fact. _If you knew, you’re my enemy,_ Sansa thought. _If you didn’t, then you’re blind._ “After that dream was ruined, my only dream was for Lady Margaery. That’s two of my dreams that your family has ruined.”

 

The silence that lasted between them after that was so long that Sansa thought their conversation was over, but then Ser Jaime sighed and began to talk.

 

“You’re a very smart woman, Lady Sansa,” said Ser Jaime, throwing her off guard. “You know that love is blinding and it can make you do stupid things– horrible things. And there is no love stronger than that between parents and their children.” Jaime turned his gaze to her. “My love for my son blinded me to his cruelty. It wasn’t until I lost my hand and returned to the capital that I truly realized how monstrous Joffrey had grown up to be.” Sansa’s needle stilled as Jaime referred to Joffrey as his son. “My love for my sister blinded me more still. We were never apart for long, you see, and while I was away at war… I met the most incredible woman in Westeros. When I returned to Cersei I was no longer under her spell, and I saw her for what she was. You’re not the only one Cersei manipulated, my lady.” Jaime didn’t give her time to respond. “I am truly sorry for what my family has done to your own, and for what I’ve personally done. I do not ask for your forgiveness – much less expect it – but I do ask that you give me a chance to prove that I’ve changed.”

 

The honesty in his green eyes startled her. Perhaps… perhaps he had changed. Theon had, hadn’t he?

 

Theon had gone from a hated enemy to a treasured brother in a matter of weeks– days even. He saved her life; he killed Myranda to help Sansa escape Ramsay, and he fought Bolton men to keep her safe. Then he protected Bran with his life. He charged the Night King himself to protect him! Sansa forced down her tears so as not to cry in front of the Kingslayer.

 

“Theon Greyjoy betrayed my family,” she said, stretching her cramped fingers. “I wanted him dead from the moment I heard what he’d done, and I fully intended to see it through. When I returned to Winterfell as a prisoner, and found a shell of a man in Theon’s body, I had no choice but to put my trust in him,” said Sansa. “Now I have entombed him in the crypt of House Stark, and I’m ordering a statue to be crafted in his memory.” She turned her head to meet his gaze. “I do not offer forgiveness for what you’ve done to my family, but I will offer a chance. Take my chance for granted and I will tell my sister the truth of how Bran fell.”

 

Jaime’s winning smile made him look years younger. “Understood,” said the knight. “And… thank you, my lady.”

 

The silence between them was companionable this time, and Sansa was relieved to have come to a truce with Jaime Lannister. She was so tired of enemies. They sat together while Sansa sewed and hummed a tune, both watching Arya and Pod dance around each other.

 

“He’s getting better,” Ser Jaime said, smiling widely as Pod ducked below a swipe of Arya’s staff.

 

Sansa noticed Tormund Giantsbane walking toward them with a mischievous grin but she decided not to warn Jaime. _This should be interesting,_ she thought, remembering what Arya said about Tormund’s… interest in the Kingslayer.

 

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen teeth so perfect,” drawled the wildling, startling Ser Jaime. Said perfect teeth disappeared as Jaime frowned.

 

“Um…” Jaime seemed to struggle to find words, sending a confused glance at Sansa as if asking for an explanation. “Thank you…?”

 

“You are _very_ welcome,” said Tormund, somehow making each word sound ribald. “You want to do a bit of sparring? Can’t let those kids have all the fun.”

 

“I’m quite sure Ser Pod is not having very much fun,” said Sansa, wincing as Arya whacked the boy in the ribs.

 

“Well, I’m sure Ser Pretty Knight and I will have _loads_ of fun,” Tormund purred. Sansa let out a very unladylike snort. Arya would keel over with laughter once Sansa told her about this.

 

“Uh, I– I don’t…” Jaime said eloquently.

 

“C’mon, pretty lord,” said Tormund, heaving Jaime to his feet despite his protests. “Let’s see how you handle a sword.”

 

As Tormund dragged the Kingslayer away, Sansa marveled at how good it felt to laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so much fun writing this chapter. I’ve never written Varys before and it was incredibly fun to write his dialogue. 
> 
> How are you guys feeling about Tormund/Brienne/Jaime? Personally I’m loving the concept but let me know what you think! Speaking of OT3s, I got some comments about Jon/Dany/Yara, and I’m open to the idea of working that ship into the story. Please comment your opinions – I’m quite flexible!


	6. Gifts for the Bridegroom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime receives some unexpected gifts.

**Jaime II**

 

Jaime was… well, he was _happy._

 

Happiness had seemed such an impossible thing for him after all that happened, yet despite everything– despite all his hardships and losses and grief, he had managed to find happiness with Brienne of Tarth. It was so rare and wonderful that he wanted to lock it away forever so that it may never be taken away from him. 

 

The last time he had been truly happy was the day his sister gave birth to Tommen. The births of his children were the only times he could be with them and be their father without risking being found out. Then he was taken prisoner and lost all three of his children, Father, and his sister to her own madness. All he had left was Tyrion. 

 

And now… now he had Brienne, and would have her until death parted them. 

 

So, he was happy. It left a funny taste in his mouth. 

 

“I’m quite sure that’s Brienne you’re tasting, not happiness,” Tyrion said once Jaime told him so. “But I suppose those two things are equivalent to you, dear brother.” 

 

Jaime smiled into his wine. “I suppose they are.” 

 

It was well into the evening when Tyrion had barged into his chambers with wine and demanded that they celebrate his last day as an unwedded man. Jaime had wanted to argue that he had been about to retire so he wouldn’t have to be awake and unwed another second than necessary, but his wish to spend time with his little brother won in the end. 

 

“Gods you really do look like a fool when you’re in love,” Tyrion said, but he was smiling too. 

 

“You should see yourself trailing after Lady Stark like a lost pup,” Jaime retorted. 

 

“That’s lost _cub_ to you, Ser,” said Tyrion with all the mock indignance he could muster. “And I’m not lost anymore– well, not _as_ lost. At least now I’m trailing after her with some purpose.” 

 

“And how’s that coming along?” 

 

“Well, Arya Stark wants to poke me full of holes, Varys keeps looking at me like some vainglorious urchin, Missandei _giggles_ at me whenever she sees me, and I’m certain Jon Snow is going to murder me when he finds out I’m courting his little sister. So it’s coming along quite nicely, I believe.” Jaime laughed and watched Tyrion as he tried to hide his own amusement. “Stop laughing, Jaime, your brother is a dead man.” 

 

“How many times have you told me that before? You always manage to escape the Stranger, and besides that, you’ve faced terribly worse odds and prevailed,” Jaime reassured him. 

 

“Worse odds,” Tyrion mumbled. “I’d rather fight the bloody Mountain himself than an angry Arya Stark. At least the Mountain would squash my head with his hands and get it over with.” 

 

Jaime snorted. “I’d rather fight Arya than her sister.” Jaime rolled his eyes at Tyrion’s shock. “The woman is the living embodiment of Catelyn Stark, and she’s every bit as threatening. I just hope I can stay on her good side.”

 

“Since when have you been on her good side?” Tyrion asked, voice muffled by his goblet. 

 

“We’re at a truce… at least I hope we are. She might be planning to jab a sewing needle in my eye for all I know,” Jaime said, shrugging. “You never told me that Joffrey– about what he did to her.” 

 

Tyrion let out a long sigh. “I wanted to preserve what little hope you had for him. Besides, I put an end to it as soon as I arrived in the capital. The poor girl was stripped and beaten by Ser Meryn and Ser Boros in front of the whole court for each of Robb’s victories.” 

 

“I knew about that,” Jaime told him. “I berated the cunts for it myself. But she said it was day after day, Tyrion.” His little brother clutched the goblet until his fingers turned white. 

 

“Gods, I’m an idiot,” Tyrion cursed. He set down his goblet and pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head slightly. “I knew Shae was getting her copious amounts of salve, I knew Sansa shouldn’t have needed that much, and I still didn’t piece it together.” 

 

“Hey.” Jaime put his hand on Tyrion’s shoulder and squeezed until he met his gaze. “No matter how hard you try, you can’t change the past. And there’s no point in beating yourself up for things you can’t change.” 

 

“Well,” Tyrion began, raising his goblet, “you’re the expert.” Jaime chuckled because yes, he _was_ the expert in beating oneself up. Tyrion drained his glass and poured himself another. “There’s something I want you to have… a gift for the bridegroom.” 

 

“Oh?” Jaime’s smile faded a bit when he noticed Tyrion’s serious gaze. 

 

Tyrion reached inside his vest and retrieved a scroll of parchment, which Jaime unrolled cautiously. Upon the page were his little brother’s neat, beautiful letters. 

 

_I, Tyrion Lannister, son of Tywin, Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, Warden of the West, and Hand of the Queen, hereby bestow upon my brother, Ser Jaime Lannister, all the titles, lands, and castles given to me by Queen Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen._

 

“What is this?” Jaime asked. 

 

“It is a gift I am glad to give,” answered Tyrion. “You have a wife and presumably many children on the way; you should have the Rock. My duties as Hand are plentiful, so I wouldn’t be at the Rock very often were I to keep it.” 

 

Jaime’s eyes shot from the scroll to Tyrion, looking from one eye to the other in search of an answer. Tyrion had longed to rule Casterly Rock ever since Tywin took every other dream from him, and now he was offering it freely to Jaime – a man who had neither the mind nor the desire to rule. 

 

“I don’t want the damned Rock – I _never_ wanted it – but you do!” Jaime clenched his fist around the scroll in frustration as he stared at his brother. “Why? Why would you give this to me?” 

 

Tyrion turned his gaze away to the hearth and stared at the roaring flames. “Because you were the only person who ever gave a damn about me. And I’d be dead if I didn’t have you.” Tyrion met Jaime’s eyes and tilted his head as he usually did when fighting tears. “You were the only one who didn’t treat me like a monster– the only one to stand up for me and protect me. _Why? Why_ would I give you our home? Because you deserve it. Because I remember all the times you snuck away to talk to me, all the times you let me cry on your shoulder, hugged me, and told me everything was going to be alright.” 

 

Jaime stood before Tyrion could say another word and went to the hearth. He tossed the scroll into the fire without a second thought and watched as the damned thing caught flame and burned away. Tyrion joined him in front of the hearth to stare into the dancing flames with his mouth agape. 

 

“Why did you do that?” 

 

Jaime knelt down and forced his brother to look at him. “All those things I did, I did because I love you, little brother,” said Jaime. It pained his heart to think that Tyrion believed his kindness came at a price. “You don’t owe me _anything_ , okay? You don’t owe me a bloody debt for simply loving you, so don’t think that you ne– _oof_!” 

 

Tyrion tackled Jaime into a crushing hug that he happily returned. Jaime shut his eyes tight and gripped his brother with all his strength, afraid that if he didn’t then Tyrion would somehow slip away from him. 

 

“I love you, Jaime,” Tyrion whispered. “You’re the best brother anyone could ask for. And you’ll never know how much joy it brings me to know that you are happy.” 

 

Jaime willed his tears away before they could spill. “I want this for you as well,” he said. “You deserve the love I have with Brienne more than I ever will, and I hope more than anything that you find it with Lady Sansa.” 

 

“If her sister doesn’t kill me first,” said Tyrion, startling a laugh out of Jaime. “And… for the record, I know that I hadn’t _needed_ to give you the Rock; I just wanted to. I wanted to give you some joy as you have given me, and I thought– I thought that after everything you might want to return home.” 

 

_Home,_ thought Jaime, _no… Casterly is not my home._

 

“My home is here,” he said, “with you and with Brienne. Anywhere in the world could be my home as long as I have her.” Jaime smiled and pulled away from Tyrion. “Besides… Brienne wants me to see Tarth and all it has to offer.” 

 

“All those beaches and sun will certainly return the golden to your hair,” said Tyrion. “What a sight you’ll be; skin burned red, hair golden, covered in sand and salt water – they’ll sing songs about the Lobster of Lannister.” Jaime chuckled and followed Tyrion back to the table where they refilled their cups. “Hey, why have we been wallowing?” Tyrion asked, setting his goblet down to shove Jaime. “This is your last night as the most desirable bachelor in Westeros! We’re supposed to be having fun!” 

 

“Well, _you’re_ the expert in having fun,” said Jaime. “What do you suggest we do?” 

 

Tyrion drummed his fingers on the table. “Gods, it’s been so long that I’ve forgotten how to have fun.” His brother thought for a moment before shooting up in his seat. “Aha! I’ve got it! We’ll need a wheelbarrow, a direwolf, a cloak, and a–” 

 

A knock on the door startled them both. “Ser Jaime?” Came Lady Sansa’s muffled voice. 

 

“Come in,” he beckoned, curious. Lady Sansa filed into the room with her sister close behind, carrying a basket at her waist. “Lady Sansa, Lady Arya, to what do we owe this pleasure?” 

 

“Is it not customary for a bridegroom to receive gifts for his wedding?” Lady Sansa set the basket on the table and retrieved a white cloak from within, holding it out across the table for Jaime to take. He hesitantly took the folded cloak and rubbed his thumb over the smooth fabric. “I know it’s not an ordinary bride cloak, but I thought a cloak of the Kingsguard might do just as well.” 

 

Jaime’s eyes shot up at her, a frown forming on his face. “How–?” 

 

Lady Sansa glanced at Tyrion and gave Jaime a small smile. “It belonged to Sandor Clegane. He gave it to me after one of Joffrey’s punishments, and I… I kept it. It made me feel safe to have it. But I don’t need its protection anymore.” Lady Stark looked back at her sister meaningfully. “And I thought it apt that my old protector’s cloak be put on my new one’s shoulders.” 

 

Jaime stared into the woman’s Tully blue eyes but her emotions were inscrutable. _Just like her mother._ “Thank you, Lady Stark. It’s perfect.” Sansa nodded once. 

 

“Her gown is in the basket,” said Lady Sansa. “I thought you might want to give it to her.” 

 

Jaime stowed the cloak back in the basket and carried it to his bedside, thanking her again as he went. It seemed that the Stark women would continue to surprise him. 

 

“Stay for a little while,” Tyrion said when they made to leave. “Have a drink with us. Ser Jaime and I are in dire need of some company.” Jaime raised his eyebrows at his little brother, knowing exactly what kind of company he wanted from Lady Sansa. 

 

“What kind of wine is that?” Asked the younger wolf. 

 

“Arbor red,” said Tyrion, “from my private stash. I can’t stand that mulled ale you Northerners drink.” 

 

Arya drank from Tyrion’s offered cup and winced at the taste. “Not sweet enough,” she said as she sat across from Jaime. Lady Sansa took the empty seat beside her and poured herself a glass. 

 

“ _'Not sweet enough’_?” Jaime repeated, shaking his head. 

 

“Ah, blood of my blood,” said Tyrion, pointing at Arya. “Now there’s a girl with some taste.” Arya smiled. 

 

“This wine is so sweet that it’s filling my teeth with holes,” Jaime said. “Give me a good ale any day.” 

 

“You disgust me,” Tyrion spat. Jaime caught the chuckle Sansa attempted to hide in her goblet. “I can’t believe you call yourself a Lannister.” His brother turned to Arya, who Tyrion was no doubt going to love calling goodsister. “Favorite wine?” 

 

“Blackberry,” said Arya. Both Jaime and his brother winced. 

 

“Okay, now _that,"_ said Tyrion, “is much too sweet.” 

 

“Traitor,” Arya said. “I got my first taste from a man in your own army.” 

 

“You drank a dead man’s wine?” At that, all emotion from Arya’s face disappeared in one swift act. 

 

“I assume you’re implying that I kill random Lannister soldiers for what your House has done to me, but you’re wrong – I don’t kill innocent people,” Arya snapped. “I am Lord Eddard’s daughter.” Tyrion retreated and Jaime pitied his brother. _Just when you were getting on her good side._ “And I don’t blame Lannister soldiers for Lannister orders.” 

 

Again Jaime was surprised by one of the Stark women. _You Stark’s are all so painstakingly honorable, the lot of you,_ he thought. 

 

“Speaking of Lannister’s,” said Tyrion, and Jaime had no doubt his brother would manage to pivot the conversation, “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.” 

 

Arya spared her sister a glance that she responded to with a nod and leaned back in her seat, face still vacant. “Go on, then.” 

 

“In the forge you told me that my lord father didn’t despise you.” Jaime fixed Arya with a confused stare. “I’d like to know how you managed that, because his three children tried for decades with no such luck.” 

 

“You knew Lord Tywin?” Jaime asked. “How?” 

 

The little wolf shrugged and drained her wine without a single change in her expression. It was frightening, really. “I was traveling to the Wall with Night’s Watch recruits after Father died, and we got captured by some pigs in Lannister armor. They took us to Harrenhal to be tortured for information on the Brotherhood. They were strapping rats to Gendry’s chest when Lord Tywin Lannister came galloping in on his white mare.” Arya’s empty face made it impossible to gauge her tone. “I never thought I’d be happy to see a Lannister – let alone my brother’s enemy. He scolded the twats for wasting able bodies and put us to work, calling our captors idiots for not noticing that I was a girl. 

 

“He said I was smart when I told him it was safer to travel dressed as a boy,” Arya said, and Jaime caught the ghost of a smile as it passed over her lips. _Strange._ “So he made me his cupbearer, and I managed to go unnoticed.” 

 

“That’s all well and good,” said Tyrion, “but I want to know how you managed to go unscathed by my father’s wrath. See, he held impossible expectations for all three of his children and he hated us more and more for each expectation we couldn’t meet.” 

 

“He didn’t have any expectations for me; I was just his cupbearer,” said Arya. 

 

“That’s simply not true,” said Jaime. “Father had expectations for everyone, from the king all the way down to the peasants in Flea Bottom.” Jaime knitted his hands on the table. “So… tell us, how’d you do it?” 

 

Arya shrugged, emotion slowing emerging from whatever depths she’d stored them in. “By just being myself.” Jaime snorted. _That never worked for us._ “I don’t know why he liked me. I spoke out of turn and I talked back to him and I was generally not a very desirable cupbearer.” 

 

“You talked back to him?” Tyrion asked, aghast. “And _lived_?” 

 

“I think it amused him that I wasn’t afraid,” said Arya. “He said he enjoyed me.” Jaime laughed in shock, immensely beguiled by the girl and her feats. 

 

“Forty years of striving for Father’s favor and failing,” said Jaime, “and a Stark does it in days.” 

 

“Cersei would claw out your hair if she knew,” Tyrion told Arya. 

 

Arya shook her head. “It’s not like he loved me or anything – I only saw him smile once.” 

 

He and his brother shouted in unison, “he _smiled?!_ ” Lady Sansa flinched at the sudden noise. 

 

“Father never smiled,” Jaime explained. “ _Never._ Not even once.” Jaime watched Arya’s brow knit together as she took in that information. 

 

“How’d you do it?” Asked Tyrion. 

 

“I– I don’t know…” said Arya as she rubbed her forehead. “He was mad at Joffrey for some reason, and then he was mad at Cersei for whatever Joffrey had done. He had me pour wine for myself and sit with him by the fire…” Arya paused and closed her eyes, seemingly replaying the memory in her head. “...and then he asked me what quality I thought made a good king.” Jaime drained his glass so he wouldn’t scream. “First I said honor, then wisdom. That’s when he smiled.” 

 

Tyrion looked like he wanted nothing more than to throw the wine pitcher across the room. “Congratulations,” said his brother, “you won the honor of having Lord Tywin’s favor.” 

 

“I didn’t want his stupid favor,” Arya spat. 

 

“That’s what makes it all the more frustrating for us,” said Tyrion. “You see, we wanted his favor, _desperately_ , and yet nothing we did was ever enough. Cersei drove herself mad trying to please him.” 

 

Jaime watched Arya’s jaw clench and unclench over and over until finally she stood. “I gotta go take a piss,” she said, and was out the door in the next second. 

 

Jaime sighed. “Aren’t we supposed to be having fun?” 

 

Lady Sansa’s eyes twinkled. “We should invite Tormund; I’m sure he could show you a bit of fun.” Being taunted by Lady Stark was very much preferable to being hated by her. 

 

“I’d prefer to save my energy for my wife, thank you,” Jaime jested, smiling when Sansa laughed. 

 

“ _Jaime Lannister_ ,” Tyrion began, widening his eyes in mock shock, “are you seeing a red-headed wildling on the side?” 

 

Jaime snorted. “No, but that hasn’t seemed to deter him.” Jaime drank generously from his glass. “I don’t know how to handle him.” 

 

“That’s unfortunate, because I believe he knows _exactly_ how to handle you,” said Tyrion, earning a laugh from Sansa. 

 

“Gods, would you two stop?” Jaime asked, but he was smiling. “Have mercy on a poor cripple.” 

 

“Only if you promise something,” said Sansa. Her mirth was slowly being replaced by seriousness. 

 

Jaime nodded. “Yes?” 

 

“Promise me that you’ll be kind to Tormund when you refuse him – if you refuse him, that is.” Jaime watched the woman tap her nails on her goblet in a rhythm. “We’re very fond of him, you see, especially Jon. And he has faced hardship even though he acts like… well, like Tormund.” Jaime had never been good at sensing deception but he believed her to be speaking for true. “He lost all his kin to the army of the dead, along with his friends and his king. He’s a good man, Ser, so I ask that you be kind.” 

 

“What is there to refuse?” He asked. “I am to marry Brienne, and– and he’s a _man_!” 

 

“How very observant of you,” Sansa jested. “You must know that men can love men as they love women.” I _can’t!_ “And wildlings are a bit like the Dornish; they do not always limit themselves to one.” 

 

“And why should they?” Asked a familiar voice. 

 

All three of them turned to see Bronn waltzing into the chambers with a crossbow in hand. Sansa slowly stood from her seat so her back was not to their possible attacker. Jaime squinted at the man and then the crossbow, which he immediately recognized. Both the lath and the tiller were deep Lannister red but the color was lost underneath the golden embroidery work lining the lath from end to end. At the very tip of the bow was a silver lion – the very same lion that adorned his son’s crossbow, which Tyrion later used to kill Father. 

 

Cersei was always one for poetic justice. _She wouldn’t,_ Jaime told himself, _she hates us, but she wouldn’t…_

 

“Ser Bronn of the Blackwater. What are you– what are you doing up here?” Tyrion asked a bit reluctantly. Jaime was immediately sobered when Bronn pointed his weapon at Tyrion. “What are you doing with that?” 

 

“This is for you,” said Bronn with a shake of his bow, “and for him. You two are a pair of gold-plated cunts, d’you know that?” Sansa moved to stand beside Tyrion so a table separated her from Bronn. 

 

“Well, that’s a bit rude,” said Tyrion without an ounce of nervousness, “even for you.” 

 

“Year after fucking year I’ve shoveled Lannister shit, and what do I have to show for it?” Jaime was scared now– scared of what he suspected Bronn had come north to do. 

 

“You’re a knight because of me.”

 

“Aye, and that title means as much as a golden hair from your pretty brother’s ballsack.”

  
  
“Power resides where men believe–"

 

“Shut your fucking mouth.”

  
  
“I’m just trying to–”

  
  
“I’ve never hit a dwarf before, but say another fucking word and I’ll belt ya.”

  
  
“See, I don’t believe you’d do that, after all–”

  
  
Tyrion shouted as Bronn’s fist came down on his nose. Jaime stood from his seat at the same time that Sansa took a step forward and Bronn stepped back, turning the crossbow to her in warning. Jaime wanted nothing more than to throw the man against the wall and beat him bloody. Jaime watched Sansa as she darted her tongue out to lick her lips, looking from Tyrion to Bronn and back again. 

  
“You broke my nose!” Tyrion groaned, indignant. His head was tilted up as he held it, and Sansa sighed.

  
  
“He didn’t break it,” said Sansa. Tyrion craned his head down a little to peer at her.

  
  
“How do you know?”

  
  
“That’s not the noise a nose makes when it’s broken,” she said coolly, turning to Bronn who lifted an eyebrow at her. “What do you want?”

  
  
“Queen Cersei has offered me Riverrun in return for killing these two cunts.” Jaime pinched the bridge of his nose. _Don’t be surprised, you fool,_ he chastised himself. “Good lands, big castle, plenty of peasants who do what they’re told.”

  
  
“Cersei will be dead soon – you saw the queen’s dragons. I assume you want a bigger castle in exchange for not killing Tyrion and Ser Jaime?”

  
  
“Aren’t you clever. Aye,” said Bronn, turning to Tyrion. “Once upon a time you made a promise to me.”

  
  
“I remember,” Tyrion said, removing his hand from his bleeding nose. The tip of it was completely red with blood. “I told you that whatever anyone offered to kill me, I’d pay double.”

  
  
“What’s double Riverrun?”

  
  
“Highgarden,” said Tyrion. Both Jaime and Sansa turned to him, mouths agape. “You could be Lord of the Reach.”

  
  
Jaime watched Bronn process that, and could hear Lady Sansa’s angry breaths. “No,” she said, taking another step. Bronn fired a bolt at her feet that broke against the stone, stopping her from moving any closer. Jaime made to lunge at him but he was too swift at reloading.

  
  
“Bronn, don’t–! Don’t hurt her!” Tyrion shouted. Jaime’s left hand clenched into a fist as he imagined all the ways he was going to kill Bronn. 

 

  
“Aren’t you a brave little lion?” Bronn turned to Sansa and she stared right back. “I wasn’t asking _you_ for permission. _Highgarden_.”

  
  
“No,” she said again. “I’ll not have a man of your integrity sitting at the power of the Reach.” Jaime agreed with her but she was being a bloody fool.

  
  
“Sansa–!” Tyrion gasped, desperate.

  
  
“Again,” said Bronn, “I wasn’t asking _you_ for permission.”

  
  
“Why not?” Sansa asked, unmoved. “I’m the Lady of Winterfell and Wardenness of the North and thus if I say you never have Highgarden, you never have Highgarden.”

  
  
“You wardenness of the south, too?” Bronn said. “You gonna march your northern soldiers south to keep me out of some fucking castle? The south doesn’t agree with you Stark’s.” 

 

Sansa took yet another step closer to the tip of Bronn’s crossbow.

 

“You’re right, the Stark’s don’t fare well in the south,” she said through gritted teeth. “But no southerner fares well in the North, either. You are a southerner. You are surrounded by wolves and wildlings and bearded barbarians who would love nothing better than to stick their sword in a southern twat like you, and all those men are under _my_ command. If I say you won’t have Highgarden, you won’t, because you’ll die right here in my home.”

 

  
“Shouldn’t you be scared of me, girl?” Sansa chuckled. “You think I won’t shoot you? I will.” 

 

“I know you would in a heartbeat, but you won’t once you hear what I have to say. Tell me, Ser Bronn of the bloody Blackwater, do you think you could stand a chance against Sandor Clegane?” Bronn showed the slightest bit of hesitance then, and Sansa smiled. “No, you wouldn’t, would you? I’m not scared of you, because, you see, I’m one of the only people Sandor has ever cared about. What do you think he’d do to you if he finds out you pointed a crossbow at me? I’m not scared because I know you’re not stupid enough to pull that trigger. Go on, put an arrow in my belly. I’ve suffered far worse before. Do it, and Sandor will cut you in half, Ser Brienne will take your head, or perhaps my little sister will sneak up behind you and slit your throat.” 

 

  
On cue, Arya emerged swift as a deer and put her dagger to his throat, clutching the hand holding the crossbow. Jaime lunged over the table and yanked the bow from Bronn, turning it in hand to point it at the cunt.

  
  
“You think you’re a very smart man, don’t you?” Arya whispered, grip still firm on the dagger to his throat.

  
  
“Dumb enough to get meself with a knife to the throat,” Bronn quipped, but Jaime could see the fear in his eyes.

  
  
“Funny, too,” Arya said. “You got a taste of fortune and now you’re nipping at its tail just to get another taste. Well, I’ve got a taste for killing. ‘Cept I don’t have to hunt for it, men like you come running into my blade with their stupid words and their stupid plans,” the wolf spat. “Perhaps I should take your face once I kill you. Yeah, I could slit your throat and peel your face from your head and be the great Ser Bronn as I run my sword through Cersei’s chest. You’re a bit old, but your muscles would do me just fine.”

  
  
“What in the Seven fucking Hells are you on about?” Bronn asked. Jaime would’ve done the same if he weren’t a little frightened of the girl.

  
  
“Oh, my sister didn’t tell you, did she? See, after my father was murdered, I didn’t spend my days hunting for a bit of gold like you; I hunted people. You ever been to Braavos, _Ser_ Bronn?”

 

“The place smells terrible.” 

 

“It’s where I learned to be a Faceless Man.” Jaime’s eyebrows shot up as his eyes widened, wondering just how frightened he should be. _An assassin that can change faces at will,_ he thought. _She could kill anyone she wished to._ “It’s also where I learned to kill, to move like a shadow… and to change skins. The Stark’s aren’t my only pack, see, I lead a pack of a hundred wolves from the body of my direwolf.” Jaime came to the conclusion that yes, he should be _incredibly_ frightened of Arya Stark. “If you _ever_ threaten my sister again, I’ll rip a piece off of you for each of my wolves to eat.”

  
  
“Hmph,” Bronn grumbled. “Now I see why every fucking man in the North calls you the Quiet Wolf, and you the red one. If you’re so bloody dangerous, how come I hear tell of your sister screaming her lungs out from Winterfell’s tower at the hands of some bastard?” Jaime caught Sansa’s flinch from the corner of his eye, and almost didn’t see Arya remove the blade from Bronn’s neck.

 

Bronn reached behind his back and Jaime nearly shot him, but Arya pushed Bronn and waved the dagger in his face. 

 

“Keeping your dagger on your back is a smart move,” said Arya, throwing it with a clatter behind herself nonchalantly, “but only if you don’t get snuck up on.” 

 

“You’re the first to– _ARGH!_ ” Bronn shouted when Arya moved quick as a snake and swiped her dagger at his hand. The tip of Bronn’s pinky finger dropped to the ground and he howled in pain as he clutched his hand. “Fucking cunt-fucker!” Bronn grunted at Arya, who simply tilted her head. 

 

“One piece down,” Arya hissed. “I’ll take another if you speak of my sister like that again.” 

 

Jaime watched Bronn breathe heavily at Arya before his breaths turned into laughs. Jaime and Tyrion shared a confused look as Bronn dissolved into deranged laughter. 

 

“Cersei was a dumb bitch to send me for her little brothers,” said Bronn. “She should’ve sent me to kill you.” 

 

“You’d be dead if she had,” said Arya. 

 

“Aye, I believe you,” Bronn said, and Jaime agreed. “Now I know why the Hound seems to like you so fucking much.” Bronn leaned over and picked up the piece of his finger, throwing it with precision into Tyrion’s wine glass. “Tell me, Lady Wolf, do you love killing as much as the Hound?” 

 

“Yes,” answered Arya. 

 

“Hmph. I like you.” Jaime slightly lowered the crossbow, sending Tyrion a look of exasperation that his brother returned with a shrug. 

 

“Not very smart of you.”

 

“Well I’m obviously not very smart, am I?” 

 

Sansa sighed, retrieving Bronn’s dagger from the floor and examining it. “Will it be a dungeon or a chamber?” She asked Bronn. 

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“Dungeon or chamber? If you stay on Cersei’s side, or if you’d prefer to keep running your mouth, there’s plenty room in the dungeons for you,” said Sansa. “Or... if you choose to fight for us, fight for the North and the Stark’s, I’ll give you a chamber. And if you remain loyal, I’ll give you the Twins and make you Lord of the Crossing. What will it be?” 

 

“My sister asked you a question,” Arya said after a long pause. 

 

“Fucking hated the Frey’s.”

 

“Not,” Sansa began, pausing to drink from her abandoned goblet, “as much as the Stark’s. Their castle is empty since my sister rid of them, and not a single Northman wants to live in their cursed halls.”

 

“You killed the Frey’s?” Bronn asked Arya. 

 

“' _You don’t even have to do anything, do ya?’_ ” Arya began, mimicking Bronn’s thick accent. “' _You just sit there, a rich slab of beef, and all the birds come pecking.’_ ” Jaime barely heard Bronn’s intake of breath as Arya switched to a poor impression of Jaime himself. “ _‘You’re welcome to her,’_ ” she said, resting both her hands on her pommel. Jaime staggered back a few steps and set the crossbow down on the table, all the while staring at Arya Stark. _Impossible,_ he thought, _it’s impossible._ “ _‘She doesn’t want me, she wants your golden fingers up her twat.’_ ” Arya chuckled. “I didn’t, actually, I wanted to slit Jaime’s throat that day. But, if I had killed him then, I wouldn’t have been able to slaughter House Frey.” 

 

Jaime struggled to find his words. “ _You_ were the–?” 

 

Arya turned to Jaime. “Yes,” she said simply, and turned back to Bronn. “Do I frighten you?” 

 

“More than both the Silver Queen’s fucking dragons, I’d say.” 

 

“Smartest thing you’ve said all night,” said Tyrion. 

 

Bronn looked at Tyrion, then Sansa. “Alright, I accept your offer,” said Bronn. 

 

“Good,” Sansa said, handing the man’s dagger back to him. “Arya, we didn’t plan on hurting Ser Bronn.” 

 

“Plan?” Jaime asked the woman, and was completely ignored. 

 

Arya shrugged. “Barely a scratch.” 

 

“Take him to Maester Wolkan, would you?” 

 

“Gladly,” said Arya, shooting a smirk at the knight. They went out together, and Jaime heard the murmur of conversation before the door was shut. 

 

Both Jaime and Sansa turned to Tyrion at his exhale. “Are you alright?” Lady Sansa asked him.

 

“Am I–?! Am I alright?!” Tyrion half-shouted. “Bronn nearly killed you!” 

 

“I was never in danger, Tyrion,” she said. “Arya‘s been watching him ever since he arrived in Winterfell a few days ago. He’s been waiting for you two to be in one place – that’s why she came with me tonight.” 

 

“I thought you were going to die, Sansa!” He shouted. Jaime would’ve left to give them some privacy if they weren’t in _his_ chambers. “I thought…” 

 

“It’s alright,” she said. 

 

There was a long silence and Jaime wanted to roll his eyes. “I do believe the more we attempt to have fun, the more we damn ourselves. I think it’d be best if I retired for the night.” 

 

After Tyrion apologized for failing to make their night a merry affair, and they left him in peace, Jaime rubbed his face until his skin was red. He didn’t know how long he stood there mourning the past, but by the end his back and feet were aching. 

 

He grabbed the crossbow and made his way through the castle with haste, uncaring of the hour, and barged through the doors to the smithy. The embers of the forge still burned hot, to his relief. He only hesitated once he reached the hearth where the coals burned brightest. 

 

Jaime ran his finger along the frayed string and tried to calm the emotions rising in his throat. He exhaled a long breath and threw the crossbow onto the red coals, slumping down to the cold ground as the bow settled. He watched the embroidery catch flame and melt away from the metal. The string caught fire where it was wrapped around the lath, and then the flame traveled across the string until it was completely engulfed. 

 

“Farewell, sister,” he whispered. Jaime hated himself for the sadness he still felt for Cersei. _She has been consumed by madness,_ he reminded himself. _Your grief has no purpose._ Still, he could not help but mourn the woman he had loved once – the mother of his children. 

 

“That’s a very expensive weapon you’re burning,” said the cool voice of Arya Stark. He looked up from the hearth and blinked away the spots seared into his vision by the flames, watching her as she pulled a fire iron from a pile of tools and sat by the hearth. She poked the coals around the bow until flame began to devour the metal. 

 

“Tyrion used this bow to kill my father,” he said, with neither anger nor remorse coloring his words. “So Cersei wanted him to die by this weapon.” 

 

“Is that why you’re destroying it?” 

 

“No,” said Jaime. “I’m destroying it because mine own sister tried to have me killed and I’m too bloody tired to be angry. A few years ago I would’ve marched all the way to King’s Landing to put a bolt between her eyes with this bow, yet sadness is all I am wont to feel for her anymore. I haven’t the will to hate her. You’ll do all the hating for me, I assume.” 

 

Neither Jaime nor Arya said anything for a long time, simply watching the flames in silence. 

 

Arya placed the fire iron on the ground to cool off and fixed Jaime with an intense stare. “On the morrow, I leave for King’s Landing.” 

 

“What?” He asked, sitting up straighter. 

 

“My sister and I have made plans with Queen Daenerys to infiltrate the capital and render it defenseless before our armies arrive. Bronn has given me all the information I need on guard shifts, and I’m ready for the journey.” Jaime opened his mouth to say it was too dangerous but then remembered who he was talking to.

 

“Why are you telling me this?” 

 

“I need to know that you will not retaliate when I kill your sister,” Arya said. 

 

Jaime turned back to the hearth to gaze at the broiling crossbow as if it had some answer. “Cersei has always been a cruel woman,” he whispered, letting the words coming straight from his heart answer for himself. “But she has suffered terribly over the years.” He began to fiddle with a loose thread on his tunic. “When I was your brother’s prisoner, I saw the same look on your mother’s face that I’d seen on Cersei’s so many times – a mother’s despair. You shall know what I speak of if ever you are to have children. Your mother… she hated me with all her might, yet it was the mother’s despair that drove her to set me free. She would’ve done anything – sacrificed _anything_ – to save her sons and daughters.” Jaime abandoned his loose thread to watch the flames dance in Arya’s wide grey eyes. “It was for that same despair that Cersei did all those horrible things you hate her for. She demanded your direwolf’s death out of love for Joffrey. She named your father a traitor to protect her children from the consequences of the truth.” Jaime sighed. “I do not ask for her life to be spared… but– but I believe she deserves a trial.”

 

“My father got no trial,” Arya said immediately, and then sighed. “But my sister says that Cersei meant to send him to the Watch, and that his death was by Joffrey’s hand and his alone. For this mercy I will repay her with a trial and nothing more.” 

 

Jaime nodded at Arya’s judgement. “Thank you.”

 

“It will be harder to execute my plans without your sister’s face,” Arya said with a frown. Jaime knew not if he could bear seeing Arya Stark wearing Cersei’s face. “I suspect she will not come quietly.” Arya sent him an appraising look. “How fast do you ride?” 

 

“Fast,” he said. 

 

“Can you slip through places unnoticed?” 

 

Jaime didn’t have to think very hard on an answer, for he spent decades sneaking around castles with Cersei. “Yes.” 

 

“Can you hunt for food?” 

 

“Yes…?” 

 

“Hmm.” Arya’s lips curled into a smirk. “You’ll be traveling with me to the capital, then. I’ll need you to subdue your sister.” 

 

“I’m to be married tomorrow, I can’t go with you!” _Nor do I want to._

 

“Oh, stop your bloody whinging,” Arya hissed. “I’m leaving my husband behind and you don’t hear me complaining about it.” She didn’t give him time to ask who her husband was, and when exactly she found time to get married. “We leave at dawn after your wedding. I suggest you prepare.” 

 

With that, Arya left him by the hearth. 

 

Jaime supposed that he owed the girl his assistance since he was asking for her mercy, but still he did not want to go. He didn’t want to leave Brienne – not for any amount of time. _She’ll kill Cersei without a trial if I stay,_ he told himself. 

 

“There you are,” came the voice of a very persistent wildling. Jaime stood so Tormund would not be towering over him. “I’ve been looking all over Winterfell for you. I thought maybe you were having second thoughts about the wedding, which would make you a fool and a cunt.” Jaime reluctantly agreed with the wildling on that. 

 

“Well, you found me,” Jaime said, not knowing what to do with his arms. He hated how unsettled the wildling made him feel. “I should retire soon; Brienne will be wondering where I am.” 

 

“You know, I fell in love with Brienne the moment I laid eyes on her,” Tormund told him. “There I was, standing in the courtyard of Castle Black, when the gates open and a black horse comes trotting in with _her_ atop its back. I’d never seen such a beautiful woman before… it was like those songs you southerners love so much.” 

 

If it were any other man, Jaime would’ve decked him for being cruel about Brienne’s looks, yet it was clear that Tormund meant every word. Jaime mentally chastised himself for the jealousy that twisted in his chest at knowing that Tormund – a _wildling_ – had the sense to see Brienne’s beauty quicker than he. 

 

“It is a pity, then, that your love is for naught,” Jaime said through gritted teeth. 

 

“What?” Tormund ever so slightly tilted his head. “Love is never for naught – not even when it isn’t returned. Love makes you warm,” Tormund said, resting a hand over his chest, “in here. And warmth is worth more than any amount of gold to the Free Folk.” 

 

Jaime blinked at him, stunned. He could find no suitable response to Tormund’s words, so instead he ignored them completely. “Why were you looking for me?” 

 

“Oh, right,” Tormund said, moving passed Jaime in search of something. “Aha,” Tormund exclaimed as he laid his hands on a box by an anvil. “As pretty as it was, I was glad to see you abandon that golden hand. Useless thing, if you ask me.” Tormund brought the box to Jaime, who reluctantly took it. 

 

“I’ll have you know that I once stopped a sword with that hand,” said Jaime, a little indignant. 

 

“All due respect, Ser Handsome, but you should be able to do a lot more than stop a sword with a hand,” Tormund said. He outstretched a calloused hand and tapped the box in Jaime’s arms. “Open it.” 

 

Jaime looked at the man for a long moment before yielding and opening the box. Inside was an odd sort of metal limb made of two tapered steel halves held together by straps, with a strange contraption attached to the stump. The attachment resembled a finger and thumb held together to form a circle, but Jaime did not understand how he could use it. 

 

“I– I don’t…” 

 

“What’s the matter?” Tormund taunted. “Never seen the craftsmanship of the Free Folk before?” He took the box from Jaime and retrieved the limb, motioning for Jaime to hold out his arm. _Oh, what the hell,_ Jaime thought just before rolling up his sleeve and giving the wildling his arm. “Hardship begets improvement, Ser Handsome, and we from Beyond the Wall have had plenty of hardship.” Tormund sheathed Jaime’s stumped arm in the metal limb, the inside of which Jaime found to be padded with cloth, and began tightening the straps. “The cold up there is only half the problem. The skin turns red, then blue, which are both treatable. If the skin turns black or green, though… that’s when the rot has set in, and you have to start cutting. Cut off enough limbs, and you get good at it. The smith here is good and he owed me a favor.” 

 

Jaime held up his arm once it was fitted and turned it to examine the craftsmanship. “How does it work?” 

 

Tormund grabbed a nearby sword and grinned. “Let me show you.” He pulled a lever on the limb’s attachment to open the claws and inserted the sword’s handle before pulling the lever again, locking the grip around the sword. 

 

Jaime gasped and staggered away, feeling suddenly quite dizzy. He twisted his forearm and the sword tilted side to side, moving with him. An almost crazed laugh bubbled up in his throat and tumbled through his lips. Jaime brought his shaking left hand up to grasp the sword alongside the claws and made a few quick slashes through the air, the wonder of it making his eyes water. 

 

“Tormund, this is…” he said, struggling to find the right words. “You have no idea what this means for me– how much it means _to_ me.” Tormund just smiled like he knew exactly how much it meant. “Why do this for me?” 

 

“Lady Sansa told me all you have done for Ser Brienne,” said Tormund. “I give you this for what you did for her, and with it I also give my heart.” 

 

_Rejecting him will have to wait,_ Jaime thought as Tormund left the smithy, for he couldn’t very well tell him to fuck off right after such a gift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, the comments last time were leaning toward pro Jaime/Brienne/Tormund, but only by a small margin. So, I created a poll for everybody to vote and that’s how I’ll make my final decision. Here is the url: https://linkto.run/p/W8PYXDQK
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! And thank you for all the wonderful comments; they’re what keep me motivated to write!


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